


Smoke and Mirrors

by skuldchan



Series: Smoke and Mirrors: The Final Fantasy VII Drag AU [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Action, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Zack/Aerith, Canon-Typical Violence, Crisis Core but with more drag, Drag Queen AU, Drag Queens, Fix-It, Genderfluid Sephiroth, Getting Together, M/M, Missing Scenes, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity Eleganza Extravaganza, Slow Burn, Wordcount: Over 150.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 158,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuldchan/pseuds/skuldchan
Summary: Cloud Strife has an eye-opening experience when he attends the Diamonds and Destiny revue at the Honeybee Inn, headlined by the mesmerizing and mysterious drag queen, Argenta Rhodea. Meanwhile, Sephiroth must accept the betrayal of Genesis and Angeal, torn between the life he has always known and his growing distrust of Shinra, as he struggles to find his friends and come to terms with the tragic circumstances of their origins. Cast adrift from his old mentor, Zack attempts to navigate his new friendship with Sephiroth while continuing Angeal's legacy within SOLDIER.Thrown into turmoil by the machinations of the Shinra Company and the Genesis Army, Cloud, Sephiroth, and Zack must choose between their personal desires and the uncertain future that lies ahead.
Relationships: Cloud Strife & Roche, Sephiroth/Cloud Strife, Zack Fair & Sephiroth
Series: Smoke and Mirrors: The Final Fantasy VII Drag AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023340
Comments: 216
Kudos: 201





	1. Who's That Girl

**Author's Note:**

> **General Warnings for the fic:**  
>  Violence: Mostly canon-typical violence with occasional canon-typical gore. Those chapters that go into more graphic detail will be labeled.  
> Character death: Canon character deaths may occur. Additional character deaths will be warned for in the relevant chapters.  
> Rape/Non-Con: None, as far as the author has written.  
> Underage: None. 
> 
> Additional content warnings will appear in the chapter beginning notes. If there are no warnings in the chapter notes, then the author believes that no content warnings apply.
> 
> There is sexually explicit content within the fic in Chapter 30, though most of the fic is rated T.
> 
> The above is true as far as the author has written, but will be updated if necessary to reflect the current status as it is posted.

Cloud wrinkled his nose at the particularly pungent mix of alcohol, perfume, and cigar-smoke permeating the expansive chamber that served as the Honeybee Inn’s main lounge and theatre. The room was dim, with only a few table lamps and the recessed wall lighting, arranged in hexagonal patterns to evoke the tessellations of the interior of a beehive, providing any illumination. He still had to squint to make out the shadows populating the room—the occasional passing tophat and the flare of translucent wings marking the passage of the Honeyboys and Honeygirls as they threaded their way amongst the booths that occupied the floor. As he took a step forward, the steel toe of his boot caught in a fold of the plush carpet. Cloud pitched forward with an undignified yelp, face forward into the darkness, his arms flailing.

“Whoa there, you gonna watch your step?”

A jerk on the back of his jacket hauled him back upright, and held him by the scruff of his collar until he regained his balance. 

“Thanks,” grumbled Cloud, with a small scowl at the guy who had saved him from an unfortunate and embarrassing faceplant. He would rather have been saved by the only other member of their small three-person entourage, even though that other was technically the SOLDIER Second Class currently serving as his Emergency Vehicular Response instructor. Cloud would have settled for anybody else, in fact, even some random stranger. Anybody but Roche.

“I guess that’s one way to make an entrance,” Roche chuckled, and threw his arm around Cloud’s shoulders, guiding him down the steps and into the rest of the room with a faint hint of mockery. His sandy blond hair, shaped with diligent care into a pompadour, added the acrid tang of hairspray to the odor invading Cloud’s nostrils. 

Roche was steering him through the crowd as if he were a regular at the Honeybee Inn, but they were in the same damn company. Roche was a recruit too, and it was also his first time here, but the easy, confident energy he conveyed made it seem, even to Cloud, as if he belonged here. With his tight leather jacket, leather pants, and his fashionable hair, he looked the part too, Cloud admitted grudgingly. Meanwhile, Cloud had had to cobble together his outfit from the few pieces of clothing he’d brought with him from Nibelheim. He’d ended up wearing a winter jacket that was two sizes too big over a ratty graphic tee shirt. His jeans, a little loose in the waist, were borrowed from Aleksandr, his bunkmate from Icicle Inn. 

Cloud hadn’t been particularly inclined toward a night on the town, especially since the entire men's barracks had erupted in laughter at what passed for clubbing gear to a Nibelheimer country boy, but Cloud had ended up going out anyway, because he knew that the rest of the recruits were just jealous that he had gotten a ticket here. He and Roche had managed to defeat their EVR instructor, Lieutenant Kunsel, SOLDIER Second Class, in a motorcycle race in the Shinra Road Simulator on the first day of training. The prize had been admittance to the Honeybee Inn, a promise that the Lieutenant hadn’t actually expected to make good on. But Cloud and Roche’s victory proved serendipitous, since the two friends Kunsel was supposed to bring along had had to drop out anyway due to an urgent assignment.

“Relax, you’re all tense. We’re lucky as hell we’re here,” hissed Roche into Cloud’s ear, as they made their way to the back of the room, toward a booth that was only two away from being shoved into the furthest corner. It wasn’t the best seat in the house, and only a couple rungs above the worst, but it was more than a recruit had a right to expect. The Lieutenant had bought the tickets six months ago, and had apparently saved up for a year before that to even afford them. 

“You’re leaning your entire orangutan weight on me,” Cloud replied. “How the heck am I not supposed to be tense?” 

Roche’s answering cackle carried a whiff of beer along with it.

“How much have you drunk?”

Roche shrugged. “So I pre-gamed. Have you seen how much the drinks cost here?”

Cloud’s mouth twisted. He could spend an entire day’s pay on just one cocktail at this establishment, but he wasn’t going to let on that he’d balked at the prices too. “I thought a city boy like you were used to Midgar prices.”

“Midgar prices, sure, but this place is a whole different story. ‘Sides, I’ve got better things to spend my money on, like a new ride.”

A new motorcycle? Cloud rolled his eyes, hoping that Roche wouldn’t notice. The guy was always talking about riding and engines, and instead of photos of hometown sweethearts or pinup girls decorating his locker, it was motorcycles. It was almost like Roche liked bikes more than he liked girls. That sort of interest would otherwise have attracted derision amongst the rest of the recruits, except motorcycles were considered cool. So instead of getting bullied for not liking normal things, a posse of like-minded gearheads was starting to coalesce around Roche. He wasn’t even allowed to ride his bike, or have it anywhere nearby, but just owning one, just talking about it and being able to discuss carburetors and fuel injection made him popular. Way more popular than Cloud.

“Fucking show off,” Cloud muttered. 

Roche laughed as if that had been a compliment, and thumped Cloud on the chest, for all the world like he was Cloud’s big brother, even though they were both sixteen. 

Lieutenant Kunsel waved them over, and they slid into their seats around the table, Cloud taking the edge, so he could have some room to himself, and so he could leave if he wanted to—if the music got too loud, if the hubbub of voices made it too hard to talk, if the price of the drinks ate too big of a hole in his wallet, which hadn’t been substantial to start off with. He could still hardly believe he was sitting at the same table as a SOLDIER Second Class. Sure, some of Kunsel’s novelty had worn off since he’d been teaching them for the past week, but Cloud had the feeling that if his annoyance at Roche and at being dragged to Wall Market started to wear off, he might risk doing something embarrassing, like telling the Lieutenant his life story, letting slip his dreams of getting into the SOLDIER program, or asking way too many questions about the Silver General.

The SOLDIERS weren’t even normally occupying the same compound as the regular recruits, they got to train in the company’s headquarters in Sector 0. If Kunsel hadn’t been filling in for the sergeant that usually taught EVR, Cloud would never have met a SOLDIER at all this early in his training. He tried not to think about how lucky he was, and tried instead to think up neutral topics of conversation. Nothing came to mind.

Cloud was saved from an awkward silence by a Honeygirl coming by to take their drinks orders. She smiled sweetly at him, and Cloud felt himself blushing from the unexpected attention. At least it was dark, so surely his companions couldn’t see, but the woman winked at him as she waited for them to peruse the menu, as if she knew exactly what his reaction would be. He was tempted to order something more expensive than the cheapest beer—just to keep up appearances—but then his spirits sank as he realized there wasn’t much to keep up. He tried not to look too satisfied when Roche did the same thing, picking the cheapest drink. And Lieutenant Kunsel only picked the second cheapest drink. Huh, maybe SOLDIERs weren’t paid as well as he thought.

“So what’s the show tonight?” Roche asked, leaning back in the cushioned seats and looking around with a casual air.

“Did you not see the Diamonds and Destiny posters plastered literally everywhere?” said Cloud.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t call that a very descriptive title,” Roche retorted. “I was hoping to be enlightened by our learned Lieutenant here.”

“It’s a special night tonight,” said Kunsel. He kept his voice neutral, but Cloud thought he could detect a note of excitement in the SOLDIER’s tone. “If it’s a Diamonds and Destiny night, it means that Argenta Rhodea is performing.” 

“Who?” Cloud asked.

“The name seems vaguely familiar?” Roche shrugged. 

“She’s the proprietor’s daughter, and hands down the most beautiful and talented performer at the Honeybee. She doesn’t come on regularly, so it’s always a surprise, and a treat, when you’re lucky enough to come on one of her nights.” Kunsel was beaming as he finished. Definitely excitement, then.

Cloud eyebrows rose. “The owner of this place lets his kid go on stage?” He hadn’t thought that the owner of the Honeybee Inn was that old, not with how modern the building looked and how fashionably it was decorated.

“She’s not his biological daughter,” Kunsel clarified.

“Adopted?” Cloud asked.

Kunsel paused. “...I think you’ll understand when you see the show.” 

“So you’ve seen her shows before.” 

“Just twice, so this is the third,” said Kunsel. He was trying to keep his voice even, but Cloud could tell that the man was desperately trying to hold in a huge grin. 

“She’s that hot, huh?” asked Roche, a little skeptical, as if there could ever be a living, breathing woman who could measure up to a motorcycle in his books.

“Actress levels of hot,” Kunsel assured them. “But we’re not here because she’s pretty,” he added quickly, “we’re here for her artistry.”

Roche folded his arms, still unconvinced, but he wasn’t going to say that a SOLDIER’s face. 

The Honeygirl returned, bearing their three beers. “Enjoy the show, boys. Wave me over if you start feeling thirsty again once the show starts. Or if you want some company.” She paused, waiting for them to take her up on the offer right now, but Cloud had the feeling that it probably cost money, a lot of money, for her time. She continued on her way, no hard feelings, when it was clear they weren’t that type of patron, her little bee stinger swinging as she walked.

“So, you gonna tell us more about this show or this Argenta Rhodea girl?” Roche asked. 

Lieutenant Kunsel chuckled. Cloud wouldn’t have been so forward with a superior officer, but Roche was always forward, taking other people’s attention as his due. They were lucky Kunsel was the relaxed, friendly type. He also wasn’t in their direct chain of command, since the Public Security Division was separate from SOLDIER, so he was allowed to be amicable when they were all off duty. Maybe he even enjoyed the company, since his original buddies weren’t able to make it. 

“I think I’ll let the experience speak for itself,” Kunsel replied enigmatically, and left it at that by toasting them with his beer.

What little lighting there was in the room dimmed, and the clamor of conversation, the shriek of laughter, the clinking of glasses all faded into silence. Cloud’s eyes widened at how rapidly the hush settled, at how thick the breathless, bated tension was as everyone in the audience waited for the show to begin. It occurred to Cloud if Lieutenant Kunsel had waited the better part of a year for this experience, there were others here who may have waited even longer. 

On the edge of his awareness he heard a hum, so quiet at first he thought it might be an auditory artifact—his own ears still ringing from the noise, but as the volume grew, he realized that it was music, the high-pitched keening of violin strings, coming from everywhere, stretching out the suspense to a crescendo of sound. Cloud’s eyes were riveted to the stage, waiting for any movement, any signal to release him from the anticipation. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d drawn, when the sound cut off abruptly. In the silence, there was a collective gasp as a single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the lounge’s entrance at the back of the room. 

Necks craned and heads turned. There was a woman standing in the center of the doorway, illuminated by the glow. She was a platinum blond, her shoulder length hair falling in loose curls, a style that evoked memories of the glamorous actresses of a bygone heyday, when Shinra was still new, when Midgar was still expanding, and the wave of mako modernization was sweeping the planet. Her diamond earrings, a mosaic of heavy teardrops, sparkled in the light, but were not as brought as her smile as she began to sing in a rich alto. Her lips, lusciously curved, were a luminous crimson, in contrast with her pale skin. There was no other sound, no other movement in the room, besides the music and the sultry sway of her hips in time to the ballad. 

She remained in the doorway for four lines of the song before she began to move, striding into the chamber like she owned it. Her heels stepped lightly over the plush red carpeting, almost floating over the same spot where Cloud himself tripped earlier. She traversed the chamber gracefully, her stilettos clicking softly on the hard floors that covered the rest of the auditorium as she made her way down the center aisle, crooning the song that Cloud now recognized as an old tune from a movie his mother liked, back from when they filmed in black and white.

The woman’s dress was white and it twinkled like morning dewdrops scattered over the fabric. The neckline plunged just far enough to offer a peek into her generous cleavage. There was a slit in the side of the dress that almost went as high as her waist, and it billowed open as she walked, revealing long, supple thighs and contoured calves in the midst of the scarlet satin that lined the inside of her gown. Her legs conveyed a hint of strength and power, though perhaps that was the confident way she carried herself, the way she drew all the eyes in the room, and bound them to her as she climbed the steps onto the stage. 

Cloud had been so transfixed by the woman, he hadn’t even noticed when the stage had lit, when the Honeybee’s dancers had trouped on stage, their signature black and yellow costumes dusted with a hint of a silver, as if they were bees that had survived a frost to greet the arrival of their queen. They were on their knees, arms swept wide, both welcoming the woman and presenting her to the audience.

The music continued, the woman still at center stage, the rest of the dancers her backup as she filled the entire theatre with her presence, with the emotion of the song, every arc of her arms, every shape of her body depicting the heartbreak in the lyrics. Cloud watched, riveted. He didn’t even register how tall she was, towering almost half a head above any of the Honeyboys behind her.

And then it was over, Argenta’s body laid across the stage in despair as the melody faded and the stage went dark. Another hush fell. 

“Argenta Rhodea, ladies and gentlemen!” The voice roared over the speakers and the audience leapt as one to their feet, all drawing a breath, applauding, whooping, shouting. Cloud, too, found himself standing, his eyes wide, his palms stinging from how hard he was clapping. 

Beside him, even Roche looked impressed, while Lieutenant Kunsel had two fingers in his mouth, giving off a shrill, enthusiastic whistle. It was minutes before the applause died, before another number started, six pairs of Honeygirls and boys swinging in fast time to the beat of the Honeybee’s jazz band. It was a welcome respite from the intensity of the spell that Argenta Rhodea had cast over them all with her performance.

Cloud sat back down again, feeling dazed and a little winded, as if a drill sergeant had just ordered him to do fifty pushups, except he had just watched a very beautiful woman sing and dance instead. “That was…”

Kunsel grinned knowingly. “Amazing, right?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever—”

“—Seen a more beautiful woman in your life?” Kunsel finished for him.

Cloud nodded. 

“Yeah, about that,” Roche began. “I don’t think she’s actually—” he stopped short when Kunsel held up a hand.

“Don’t ruin it for him.” 

“Ruin what?” Cloud asked innocently.

“Somebody’s got to explain it to him eventually,” Roche countered reasonably. 

“Explain what?” said Cloud, starting to get annoyed now that Kunsel, a SOLDIER, and Roche, a recruit, were in cahoots on something he didn’t know.

Kunsel and Roche eyed each other. “I defer to the superior officer,” Roche said, bringing up his hands in the universal signal of concession. 

Kunsel turned toward Cloud and laid it out plainly. “Argenta Rhodea is a drag queen.”

Cloud blinked. “What does that mean?”

Roche buried his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not think I could have started this endeavor without [GhostOfTasslehoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff), who has provided inspiration, feedback and encouragement. I am indebted to her for her efforts on this. Please check out her works as well.


	2. All About Her

Cloud squinted, as if narrowing his eyes could help him discern something that wasn’t already apparent. 

Argenta Rhodea was dripping in diamonds, strings upon strings of them draped from her bodice, forming layers of fringe that danced about her waist, accentuating her thighs as she sashayed across the stage. Her voice was completely different from the last song, this one more recent and upbeat than the previous. After it had gone into the chorus, even Cloud recognized it as a hit that had played on the radio a couple of years ago. Drag performances were commonly lip syncs, Kunsel had explained, as they sat patiently through more of the Honeybee’s dance numbers while waiting for Argenta to come back on. They weren’t about pretending to sing, they were supposed to breathe new life, new dimension and perspectives into familiar tunes. Or sometimes they were good excuses for a drag queen to have fun and show off her body, as this one clearly was for Argenta. Her luminous smile seemed to brighten the entirety of the theatre as she reached around her waist and unwound a layer of glittering fringe, holding onto it at both ends, teasing the audience before tossing it aside. The silver bodice she wore underneath was cut high, revealing every inch of the tantalizing shape of her hips, and making her legs seem impossibly long. 

Cloud would probably have not noticed that there was supposed to be more to Argenta Rhodea if Kunsel hadn’t explained drag queens to him. He could hardly believe what he was seeing—there was just so much woman. She was taller than the rest of the men she shared the stage with, but Cloud would have written that off as Argenta being special. Her legs were well-muscled, but she could dance, and that required strength. No ordinary woman wore that much makeup, put on that much eyeshadow, or had lashes quite that long, but stage makeup was supposed to be heavier than normal makeup, even Cloud knew that. There wasn't even any sign of the male accoutrements down there—she didn't look any different to the Honeygirls in the private parts department. He stared at her, transfixed by her beauty and the mystery of how and why she was what she was.

Argenta stepped lightly off the stage and to the first closest row of booths—the Honeybee VIPs and high-rollers. She leapt onto the table as if it were nothing, despite the height of the surface and the height of her heels, and she continued as if she were actually singing, her captive audience watching her up close in dazed, open-mouthed awe. 

Cloud wondered what it would be like to gaze at her from that proximity, almost seven feet of her, high heels and hair included. Would he see any imperfections, would he find any telltale signs of the man beneath her soft, feminine features? Or was Argenta Rhodea perfect in every way, as flawless from a distance as she was up close and personal? He desperately wished that she would make her way back to them, eventually, but they were too far back, too unimportant to be graced with her presence. 

The song was a defiant spiritual anthem, about finding a new life after a love long unrequited. Every gesture Argenta made, every time she threw back her head, and bent her back in a graceful arc, Cloud felt her resolution, her determination to rise again, be reborn again, as if it were his own, even though he was sitting all the way in the back. His heart was still hammering in his chest when the performance ended, his palms still stinging from having applauded so hard during her first piece. He was on his feet again, Kunsel was whistling, and even Roche—always cool, always casual, always looking slightly bored—applauded with firm conviction, though he managed to stay in his seat.

“I liked the first one better,” Roche explained, when the applause finally died and Cloud shot him an accusing look. 

“Uh huh,” said Cloud skeptically. Being a dude, he knew full well what awkward situations sometimes caused other dudes to not stand up if they were sitting. His eyes wandered downward to Roche’s crotch, fully intending to call his bluff.

“Hey!” Roche chided. “My face is up here.” There was a faint coloring to his cheeks, which couldn’t have been a reaction from the scant alcohol in the low-grade beer.

* * *

They caught the last train going back up to the plate, barely, and had to leg it to the station to make it on time. Cloud and Roche checked back into the barracks with just over four hours before they were supposed to be up again for morning drills. A few of the recruits were still awake, eagerly waiting to hear all about their experience with the fabled Honeygirls. Several heads popped up from amongst the rows of bunks. It was long after lights out, so it was by the faint glow of the moon that they cornered Cloud and Roche just inside of the door. 

“Are they as pretty as the pictures in the mags?”

“Did they sit with you during the show?”

“Did Lieutenant Kunsel treat you to anything special?” Though he could hardly see for the dimness, Cloud could picture Aleksandr wiggling his eyebrows suggestively from his tone of voice. 

Cloud considered his answer. He realized now the question had been asked, he hadn’t paid much attention to the Honeygirls at all. A few of them had been in the lobby when he’d entered, hanging off the arms of the well-to-do patrons in their sharp, tailored suits, but Cloud had only gotten a glimpse of them before being ushered on. There was the girl who had served them their beers. She had been pretty cute with her ginger hair and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Of course Cloud had wanted to please her in the moment—that was his default state when it came to girls, but he hadn’t given her another thought until now, not since Argenta Rhodea had taken to the stage. Was she as pretty as in the magazine advertisements? Cloud had never seen a picture of her, or the Honeybee Inn ads, but he could not imagine a still image, no matter how appealing, holding a candle to the sheer force that she was in person, even from the back of the theatre.

Cloud opened his mouth to explain their evening, but Roche beat him to the punch. 

“Yes, no, and maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe?” 

“It means whatever happened stays between me, Cloud, and Lieutenant Kunsel. If you wanna know, you can go ask the SOLDIER.”

There was a chorus of groans. 

“C’mon, man, we stayed up all night waiting for you guys!”

“You gotta give us some details!” 

“I even leant you my pants, Cloud!” Aleksandr protested. “You totally owe me some sweet deets!”

“You can have the pants back right now if you want ‘em,” Cloud grinned, making as if to strip. 

“Gross! They’re probably all sweaty.”

Just as the group of recruits snickered, the lights in the barracks flickered on at full strength, blinding them all. 

“Seems like some recruits want to drop and give me fifty instead of sleep.” The booming voice of Sergeant Emery, their drill instructor echoed across the room. 

They froze in fear, their hands still covering their faces. “Sir, no, sir!” They answered in unison. 

Cloud risked peeking through his fingers, meeting the disapproving glare of the sergeant. She had her arms folded beneath her breasts, and that was definitely a bad sign. Cloud wondered if he ought just to start doing some push-ups, maybe get a head start on the others even though she hadn’t explicitly ordered them to yet.

“Then get the hell back to your bunks! Last one gives me ten!”

They scrambled. Cloud, who had just been about to drop to the ground and start doing push-ups, ended up getting a slower start than the others. He was also the only one with the misfortune of having a top bunk, and so was too slow in heaving himself up the ladder. 

“Strife! Ten!”

Cloud climbed back down and hit the ground with alacrity, going right into push-ups. He heard Aleksander snigger.

“Raikkonen! Ten!”

Cloud couldn’t help a small smile of satisfaction as Aleksandr joined him on the floor. If anybody else had been awakened by the arrival of the sergeant—and Cloud was pretty sure it was just about everyone but the soundest of sleepers—there was not a single sound, not a single movement in the barracks except Cloud and Aleksandr’s ten push-ups. 

“If I so much as hear another peep out of any of you,” Emery warned, “I’m starting drills an hour early, at five o’clock. No skin off my back, since you’re keeping me up anyway.”

Cloud and Aleksandr finished, and dutifully rolled into their beds, too obedient to even acknowledge. She had said ‘so much as another peep,’ after all. 

The lights went out again, and Emery slammed the door shut behind her. 

Cloud breathed out a sigh of relief as quietly as he could, expecting the barracks to erupt in a hiss of whispers, some wanting a retelling of his Honeybee Inn experience, others berating him for waking Emery and thus waking the rest of them. But there was just silence—the recruits weren’t stupid. So Cloud stretched back into his pillow, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he stared up at the ceiling. He was exhausted, but still too awake to settle or even contemplate sleep. 

He had been about to answer yes to whether Kunsel had treated them to anything special. He figured now that Aleksandr had meant the Honeybee Inn’s services, the very tamest of which was a full body, nude massage. But he had only been thinking of Argenta. Had Roche purposefully helped him out when he’d answered first, or had he been sparing himself an awkward situation by not having to insist that he wasn’t into drag queens? Maybe he was even protecting Lieutenant Kunsel. It wasn’t their place as recruits to speculate on the off duty interests of a SOLDIER and superior officer, drag queens or no. Had Roche just been discreet? Cloud couldn’t imagine those words and that name sitting together in the same sentence. 

Rather than spend his time ruminating on whatever went on in Roche’s head—probably just motorcycles—Cloud thoughts turned once more to Argenta Rhodea. Where was she now, he wondered. Did she live in the slums or did she live on the plate? Was she entertaining someone right now, some high-status patron—a government official, a wealthy CEO, a famous actor—just like another Honeygirl? Cloud couldn’t imagine her doing that at all. She hadn’t given off the air that her performances, that her time, was for anyone but herself. The sole reason she was on stage was that she enjoyed it. She had held court over them all, had held them in her thrall. Argenta Rhodea gave what she wanted, when she wanted, on her own terms. Cloud could hardly claim that he knew her, not after having only seen her for a meager three numbers, but he had learned that much from watching her for those few short minutes, seeing how much of herself she had left on the stage and infused into her audience.

His mind meandered onto other questions. Who was she? Was she some nobody, just like he was? She could be anybody in real life—a mako reactor tech, a shop owner, a software programmer, a Shinra drone. If he saw her without her makeup, would he be able to recognize her? Did she have a job during the daytime, to help pay the bills? 

Floating amidst the unanswerable questions, Cloud finally drifted off to a fitful sleep, only to be awakened rudely by the morning bell, signaling the start of drill practice in just thirty minutes. He hauled himself out of bed blearily, and headed for the showers with everyone. If his outing with Roche and Kunsel had made the others envy him, it was all back to normal now. They were all Shinra Public Security Division recruits. Nobody spoke to him as he showered, brushed his teeth, and pulled on his fatigues. It was a new day, after all.

* * *

It was just before dawn when Argenta Rhodea finally stepped into the glass elevator that carried her the fifteen floors to her apartment in Sector 7. She gazed at the view expanding before her, the coy hint of sunlight blushing the blue horizon, painting the underside of the occasional tuft of cumulus cloud with the promise of morning. A part of her wished it would never come, but she ruthlessly pushed aside that desire. It did her no good to brood on all the things she wanted that she could never have; it would be a litany without any end. She folded her arms across her body, leaned against the glass, and focused instead on the vista. This part of the city was serene at this hour, the stillness a shock from the boisterousness of Wall Market, which would continue until the sun had risen properly. The arrival of the elevator at her floor kept Argenta from sinking too deep into her own thoughts.

Her heels clacked against the lavish, imported marble flooring, echoing softly against the walls as she made her way to her door. Nobody was awake in the building at this time of night, and she would be gone again before anybody could find her here. The door opened soundlessly to her key. The first thing she did when she closed it again was shrug off her long coat and hang it carefully in the entryway closet. She sighed with relief when she kicked off her heels, leaving them lying sideways on the floor. They were a punishing seven inches, and she almost let out a groan of contentment as she stretched out her toes from their confinement. The wooden floors felt pleasantly cool, even through the three pairs of hose she was wearing, and she was grateful for the opportunity to redistribute her weight away from the balls of her feet. 

She was not two steps into her apartment when she heard her phone buzzing and saw the telltale blink of unread messages from where she had left it charging on her kitchen table. She was of half a mind to ignore the messages—let them come in, she needed to undress and take a long shower—but there was one only man in the entire world who blew up her cell with that kind of insistence.

Against her better instincts, and because she remembered that said messages might be important to her, she strode over to the table and picked up her phone. There were almost fifty unread messages from just this evening alone—status reports, communications transcripts, briefs, fuzzy images taken by intelligence drones. Argenta sifted through them all, her red nails clicking against the glass screen as she scrolled past words like abandoned, neutralized, air strike, mother, fire. She began to tremble, rage building inside her. She gripped the sides of her phone until her knuckles turned white, and she felt the casing begin to buckle. The names of her friends echoed in her mind with each appearance of their initials, until they blurred together with the rest of the text and Argenta had to blink—once, twice, thrice—before she could see again. 

She should have stopped the bombing. She should have been there. Regret hit her like an explosive shell, knocking the breath out of her and reverberating through her bones, accompanied by another, watery blurring. 

She continued to read until she had finished every message, not caring that her makeup was starting to streak. She had been meaning to take it off anyway.

One final notification popped up. Trust Lazard Deusericus to send him a slew of communiqués and top it all off by dropping a meeting into his calendar, one scheduled for ninety minutes from now, no less. Asshole. Did the man ever sleep? 

If it had been any of Shinra’s other bullshit involvements, he would have skipped the meeting. They could send in the Turks, send in the Army, in his stead. But he couldn’t ignore what had just transpired in Banora Village, even if he’d wanted to. 

Exactly thirty minutes later, Sephiroth, the Hero of the Wutai War, the most precocious and powerful SOLDIER that Shinra had ever produced, rode the elevator down fifteen floors. The sun was beginning to rise, and the dawn light lent his silver hair, still damp from the shower, an ethereal amber glow. He climbed into his car, and checked his reflection in the rear view mirror. His eyes glowed a brilliant green, his vertical-slitted pupils slightly dilated. Judging that his expression was one of suitable impassivity, he brought the engine to life and sped out of the garage onto quiet streets. He was headed into Sector 0, which was occupied by the towering building that served as the global headquarters of the Shinra Electric Power Company.


	3. Are You Okay?

It was near impossible to get her out of his head, between his days packed full of drills, Emergency Vehicular Response, combat, and more drills. Aside from the one hour a day of personal time the recruits were allowed, the only occasion that Cloud had a moment to himself to think was when he was sitting in the classroom for academic training—Shinra Policy, Midgar Code, Basic Medical, and the like. Cloud had never been particularly good at book learning and rote memorization, so he needed to put in extra effort to keep up. Whenever he found his concentration waning, he daydreamed himself back to the Diamonds and Destiny revue, much to the concern of his instructor, Sergeant Stanford. 

A wave of sniggering broke out across the room, as Cloud realized that she had called him to attention and asked him a question. A search of his auditory memory turned up a complete blank. That was the third time this had happened in as many days.

“Can you repeat the question, please, sir?” 

“Strife, has the rifle range made you hard of hearing?” Stanford glared at him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. 

Cloud felt ten years old on the receiving end of that stare, particularly as he was the only recruit standing. “No, sir!” He flushed as a fresh wave of tittering swept through the class.

“Then give us the definition of ‘excessive force’ per section five of the Shinra Public Security Division Manual of Administration and Conduct.”

“Um....” Cloud hesitated, stalling for time. Shit, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, since it was his week on the night watch. He barely even had the time to browse the PSD manual. He wracked his memory, hoping it would find even a vague scrap he could turn into an impression and spin some decent bullshit out of, but he found nothing. Then it occurred to him that Sergeant Stanford might have shot him a trick question, as she liked to do occasionally to test the recruits’ common sense. 

“There isn’t one, sir,” Cloud answered finally, as confidently as he could muster. It was a gamble, but it wasn’t inconsistent with the PSD’s reputation. 

Stanford’s lips pursed. “You think you're clever, don't you, Strife?" she asked, tersely.

"No, sir."

"Instead of participating in combat training this afternoon with Sergeant Emery, you will sit to the side and read the entire PSD manual. I foresee a lot of remedial work in your future.” 

Cloud went beet red and sat back down in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he replied faintly.

“Hoffman,” the sergeant turned and snapped at Roche. “Excessive force, please.”

“A use of force greater than that which is reasonable and prudent under the circumstances, sir.”

“And which situations may the PSD be held liable?”

“A stop, arrest, or seizure, sir!”

Stanford nodded, satisfied, and moved on, sparing Cloud the further embarrassment of having to demonstrate how little he knew for the rest of the class. He caught Roche stealing questioning glances in his directions a few times, but Cloud ignored him, and did his best to focus on the task at hand, which was supposed to be passing basic recruit training. If he couldn’t even do this, he didn’t know how he’d ever make it into SOLDIER.

* * *

Roche caught up with him at the end of class, as the rest of the company were filing to the mess hall for chow time. He’d had to circle back, because Cloud usually hung by himself at the rear. 

“Dude, are you okay?”

“Why do you care?” Cloud asked, feeling pricklier than usual after his classroom humiliation.

“‘Cause you’re being a weirdo.” 

Cloud glared daggers at him, but Roche appeared impervious. 

“More of a weirdo than usual, anyway.”

“You are such an asshole,” said Cloud, scowling and wishing that Roche would leave him alone after one-upping him in front of everyone.

“Yeah,” Roche grinned. “My big brother tells me it’s my best trait. Along with my hair.”

“Ugh,” Cloud made a noise of disgust and rolled his eyes, but not even that seemed to put Roche off from attempting to socialize. Instead, Roche put his arm around his shoulders. Cloud shrugged it off quickly, and joined the rest of the lunch line. Roche threw his arm back on, and Cloud brushed it off again. They did that two more times, until Cloud gave up and let Roche pretend they were friends.

“Hey, you wanna sneak out and meet Lieutenant Kunsel for lunch?”

“Sneak out?” Cloud balked. He looked around in alarm, in case anyone had heard. Recruits were not allowed to leave the compound unless they had prior clearance to do so. Kunsel had signed them out for their Wall Market outing the other day, but if they left without permission, and got caught doing it, they could be dismissed from service. 

“Yeah,” Roche continued, unconcerned. “He usually grabs a bite at that café outside of the base. Says the food’s way better than what they serve at Shinra HQ. And way better than the shit they serve us, for sure,” Roche added, cocking a thumb in the direction of the kitchen, where Cloud could see, if he rose to his tiptoes, some gray, colorless gravy being slopped upon a bed of rice on some poor recruit’s lunch tray. 

“How the heck do you know where Lieutenant Kunsel eats lunch?” Cloud asked, wondering if there was something that Roche wasn’t letting on about his interest in the SOLDIER.

“I’ve got insider info.” Roche said with a wink. 

Cloud folded his arms across his chest. “I am not running the risk of being dismissed on your ‘insider info.’”

“Okay, okay. It’s my bro who told me, ‘cause he works there.”

“The one who thinks you’re an asshole?”

Roche beamed. “I’ve only got the one.”

* * *

What had been sold to him as a café on the edge of the training compound was more of a rusty food truck fenced in by a collection of rickety picnic tables and rusty stools, and the odd umbrella providing some shade. It was just beyond the barbed wire that separated the base from the city, and was crawling with PSD personnel. There certainly wasn’t anybody else out in this neighborhood of Sector 2, but military. To Cloud’s horror, he spotted the sergeants Emery and Stanford at one of the tables. 

“We gotta go back!” Cloud hissed, but Roche grabbed him by shoulders, and calmly steered him back toward the truck. 

“The first rule of crashing a party is pretending that you’d been invited all along. Act natural, like you’re supposed to be here,” Roche whispered. “Besides, we’re already out of the compound, so it’s too late to pretend we haven’t snuck out.”

Cloud’s heart sank as they walked right past their two instructors, who looked up from their meal. 

“Strife! Hoffman!” Emery barked in her distinctive tone. “You two lookin’ for a dismissal?”

“No, sir,” said Roche, saluting smartly. “Just some decent food, sir.”

“Did you receive clearance to leave?” Stanford asked, her eyes narrowing.

“I signed them out.” The two drill sergeants turned to Lieutenant Kunsel, who approached with a friendly wave, holding a plate piled high with paella, fresh from the pan. “I thought they needed a little extra mentorship, since they’re excelling at EVR, and I didn’t want to chow in the mess.”

Emery harrumphed. “I don’t recall seeing the paperwork,” she growled. The rivalry between the PSD and SOLDIER was legendary, the former particularly nursing a grudge against the latter for poaching their best officers and taking the lion’s share of the division's budget. She did not appear to believe that Kunsel had given them prior permission to leave, and was going to make sure that Kunsel, as well as the two recruits knew that she knew. Cloud wished the city plate beneath his feet would open up and drop him right into the slums—it was a terrible idea getting on the bad side of their drill instructor.

“I’ll make sure to bring these boys back in one piece when I’m done,” replied Kunsel cheerily, unfazed by Emery’s glare and Stanford’s suspicious gaze.

He beckoned them over. Cloud hesitated, and had to be given a shove by Roche. 

“Thank—” Cloud began, but Kunsel clapped him hard enough on the back to make his teeth clatter shut. 

“Get some grub. I’ll grab us a table,” Kunsel said simply, and encouraged Cloud to follow Roche.

The man standing behind the counter of the truck—Del Sol Street Food, according to the menu which hung on its side—looked in his early to mid-twenties. He sported tanned skin, a thin goatee, a mane of dirty blond hair, short in the front and tied in a loose ponytail in the back, and an insouciant air that instantly identified him as a Hoffman. 

“Roche!” The young man called, his expression brightening immediately into a smile. 

“Hey, Genen! Long time no see. How ya’ doin’, man?”

Cloud watched the brothers fist bump over the counter. And then Roche decided that wasn’t enough, so he ran into the truck, and shared a giant, two-armed embrace with his brother. They had identical smiles, and the same, loud, genial laughter. Cloud was a little envious, having been an only child. Must be nice having siblings, he thought, watching the two Hoffmans thump each other on the back. 

Genen turned toward Cloud “This guy giving you any trouble?” he asked.

Cloud smirked. “Yeah, lots.”

“I knew it!” Genen laughed, with the same booming cackle that Roche had. 

“Thanks, dude,” Roche protested. “You have no idea how much trouble that guy’s bringing me!”

“A likely story,” Genen shot his younger brother a dubious look, as he handed a plate of paella to Cloud, who patted his pockets, and realized he hadn’t brought his wallet. 

Cloud paled.

“It’s on the house,” Genen winked. “Thanks for taking care of my little bro.”

“It’s totally the other way around,” Roche said with a snort, in a tone that brought a smile to Cloud’s face. 

“Sure, it is,” Genen replied, and was rewarded with a frustrated growl from his brother’s direction. 

Cloud grinned, amazed to see Roche getting teased so expertly. “Thank you,” he said, with a polite nod to Genen before he retreated quickly to Kunsel’s table, not wanting to play third wheel to the two brothers catching up. 

Kunsel was in the middle of inhaling his meal, he’d practically finished half of his plate already. 

“Thanks for…”

Kunsel glanced up, meaningfully eyeing the sergeants a few tables away. They were mostly out of earshot, but drill sergeants in particular, seemed to have more sensitive hearing than ordinary humans. 

“...inviting us out here,” Cloud finished.

Kunsel nodded. “Not a problem,” he replied, and then shoved another spoonful of paella in his mouth as if he’d not been fed for the past week. 

“The food’s that bad at Shinra HQ, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Kunsel said, once he’d swallowed. “The only person who can eat the shit they serve there is Sephiroth.”

Cloud perked up considerably at the name. Sephiroth. SOLDIER First Class. A man who’d made the rank when he was younger than Cloud was now, and even then already lauded as a hero, a tactical genius, and a rare, once-in-century prodigy. He was celebrated on the radio, in the papers, and on the television for not only being extraordinarily intelligent, but also masterful in physician combat. He was smarter, faster, and stronger than any other person who had ever graced the planet—because he was SOLDIER, because he was Sephiroth. Cloud could not remember when he had first heard of Sephiroth, when he had first hung pictures of him—newspaper clippings, magazine articles—on the walls of his bedroom. In Cloud’s memory, he had always looked up to Sephiroth as the pinnacle of heroism, always wanted to do great things and be like him when he grew up. He used to spend hours in the forest surrounding Nibelheim with the few other friends he had, playing SOLDIER, pretend sword fighting with long sticks, quarrelling over who got to be Sephiroth for the day and who had to settle for being Genesis. They’d practice Sephiroth’s sword stance, try to duel left-handed, and argue about who was doing it the most right. 

Cloud had idolized Sephiroth for so long that sometimes he forgot that the Silver General—the most acclaimed commanding officer in the history of Shinra’s army, who had also recently brought a close to the protracted conflict with Wutai—was just a man. Did he have to sleep in a tent and eat shitty food in a mess hall, like any other officer in the military? Cloud had a hard time picturing it. And here was Lieutenant Kunsel, who had met him. Who trained with him, and served with him. Who probably knew him. 

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Kunsel said with a wry smile, pointing his fork at Cloud. 

Cloud realized that he must have gone silent for a while and gotten that particular starry-eyed look on his face his mom used to tease him about. 

“And yes, he does eat MREs like the rest of us, but he doesn’t complain about them nearly as much. He was raised by Shinra, so we figure that the food probably burned out all his taste buds at a young age. Lucky him.”

“Do SOLDIER taste buds not regenerate?” Cloud asked, delighted by the unexpected intimacy of the information that Kunsel had shared.

“Apparently not, which is why I’m making the most of mine while I still have them. I dunno how Roche eats the crap they feed you recruits, when there are people at home who cook like this.”

“He’s always talking shit, so I guess everything tastes the same to that mouth.”

Kunsel laughed, inhaled a grain of rice the wrong way, and broke out into a coughing fit. Cloud passed him a glass of water, feeling surprisingly at ease even though he was cracking jokes with a superior officer, a SOLDIER no less. The rest of the sergeants at boot camp would have considered that level of familiarity insubordination, and when they did laugh, it was at the recruits, not with them. Kunsel was nice, and he had a sense of humor. Was everyone in SOLDIER this nice? Was Sephiroth—

“Hey!” Roche’s voice cut across Cloud’s thoughts. “You two talking ‘bout me?” Roche was leaning against the side of the food truck, chatting animatedly with Genen, while keeping one eye on them.

“Of course we are!” Cloud replied.

“Yeah, figures.” Roche rolled his eyes with good humor, and resumed his conversation, ignoring both Cloud and Kunsel.

Wasn’t he going to join them? Cloud wondered, frowning slightly as he turned back to the lieutenant. He noticed that the SOLDIER was watching him closely, and Cloud wondered if he’d gotten some rice on his face. He wiped his mouth with a napkin just in case. 

“So how’ve you been holding up?” Kunsel asked quietly, after a moment of staring. 

Cloud looked up from his food, and realized that Roche had set this up. Roche knew that he had things he wanted to talk about, and had brought him out here on purpose. Cloud glanced at his fellow recruit again, but Roche was making some wild gestures, not even looking in his direction. He was leaning from side to side and flicking imaginary handlebars like he was riding a motorcycle. Was he telling Genen about a motorcycling thing? Of course he was.

“I guess there’s been a lot on my mind,” Cloud said hesitantly, suddenly feeling too shy to admit what that ‘a lot’ really was. He shouldn’t be. His preoccupation was Kunsel’s fault after all. He would understand, right? “It’s…” Cloud was of half a mind to say something else. Maybe he could pretend it was all about Sephiroth. Or wanting to get into SOLDIER. He could ask about the program.

“Argenta Rhodea?”

Cloud didn’t answer, surprised that Kunsel had guessed already, but he must have seen something, because he continued.

“Yeah, she has that effect on a guy.”

“But she is a guy,” Cloud blurted.

“Well…” Kunsel wrinkled his nose as if he wanted to articulate something complex and launch into a long explanation, but couldn’t find the right words to start. “It’s probably more nuanced than that,” he managed finally, “but nobody really knows, so....”

“Nobody really knows what?”

“Nobody really knows who she is or why she performs.”

“No one?”

Kunsel shook his head, but then gave Cloud the side eye. “Why do you want to know?”

“I just…want to know.” Cloud didn’t know what he’d do with the information, he just wanted to have it. “You know, her real name, what she does in real life. Anything at all.” He wanted more pieces of her that he could have and connect to, that he could use to evoke his memories of her and how she had made him feel, standing incandescent in the doorway, gliding through the Honeybee’s theatre, and leaping gracefully onto a table.

“Apparently, she’s a private person. She’s never shown her boy self to the world. Nobody’s even seen her out of drag.” 

“You mean, nobody’s figured it out?”

“There are plenty of fan theories, but that’s all they are in the absence of proof.”

Cloud frowned. That couldn’t be right. “They haven’t figured it out from the video feeds of who’s leaving and entering Wall Market or the Honeybee on the nights she performs?” Surveillance footage would have been his first port of call if he’d wanted to solve the mystery of her identity. 

“She shows up to the Honeybee in drag already. There’s no cameras around there, and thousands of people come and go out of Wall Market every night. How are you ever gonna figure out who’s really who over days of security footage?”

Cloud considered Kunsel’s logic. The lieutenant had a point. If nobody knew who Argenta really was, it could be anybody caught on camera. “I guess,” he said, admitting disappointment and defeat. “I was hoping you’d know, since you seem like a huge fan and all.”

“She’s an artist. I like watching good performers and good performances,” Kunsel shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me that she’s a drag queen.”

Cloud cocked his head to the side. “How did you first hear of her, then?”

“Ah,” Kunsel sat back in his chair with a grin. “My twin brother produces the drag shows at the Golden Saucer. Told me about her, what...five years ago? Said there was a new girl in Wall Market who was blowing audiences clear out of the water, and sent me to check her out. Been a fan ever since.”

“And you’ve only seen her three times?”

“Hey, the Honeybee Inn ain’t cheap!”

“Yeah,” Cloud sighed. If a SOLDIER Second Class couldn’t afford to go on the regular, he supposed he had no hope on a recruit’s salary, or even a private’s, once he graduated from training. 

Kunsel reached over and patted Cloud on the shoulder. “Chin up, you’ll see her again if you’re devoted enough. In the meantime, we circulate bootleg videos we’ve taken around the fanclub sometimes. It’ll tide you over.”

“There’s a fanclub?”

“It’s not an official one. I’m not the only one in the city with eyes,” Kunsel chuckled. “Why? You wanna join?”

Cloud flushed, and did his best to hide his smile. He wanted to grin from ear to ear, at the thought of talking to other people who liked Argenta Rhodea as much as he did. “Yes, please. Sir,” he added belatedly.

“I’m not on duty right now, so no need to ‘sir’ me,” Kunsel smiled. “I’ll send you an invite. You know, if you’re just interested in drag in general, there are plenty of other Midgar queens on the circuit that are much easier to catch.”

“Are they as good as Argenta, though?” 

“There’s a lot of different types of drag out there. Comedy queens, camp queens, and some really really weird, really really creative queens. It all depends on what your cup of tea is. But…”

“But?”

“But, in all honesty, there’s nobody else like Argenta Rhodea.”

“Oh,” Cloud sighed. Of course she was special. He poked at the remains of his paella.

“All right, move over, Cloud. I’m not gonna let you hog the lieutenant all damn day.”

Cloud looked up. Roche stood over him, arms akimbo, blocking out the sun. He noticed that Roche hadn’t told Kunsel to move over and make room at the table, just him. Without complaint, Cloud scooted over.

“Didn’t know that was your brother running this joint,” Kunsel said, changing the subject as Roche took a seat. He nodded over to Genen, who was busy helping a new wave of customers emerging from the base.

“It’s because I’m the handsome one in the family.”

“I was going to say that now I’ve seen you side by side, I can see the family resemblance,” said Kunsel.

Cloud sniffed. “And I was going to say that he’s obviously the handsome one.”

“Oh, you think so?” Roche raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Cloud, but my brother’s taken.”

Cloud sputtered, flushing involuntarily at Roche’s jibe. “That’s not what I meant!” he protested, and then got annoyed at himself for reacting so strongly to such a dumb joke.

“I know, but it’s fun as hell to rile you up.”

Cloud growled and Kunsel laughed, and they passed the rest of the lunch hour chatting idly.

* * *

It was well past his usual bedtime, and for once, he would rather go to bed and do something as dull as sleep rather than stay up another minute staring at the blasted computer terminal. Zack Fair had pumped himself full of caffeine, or at least a pink carbonated juice he’d picked up from the vending machines on the IT floor that promised it was full of caffeine, and a few other chemicals with long names he had no hope of ever pronouncing. He hoped they would help him stay up all night, but instead, he was already halfway to slumbertown. Either the energy drink was reacting strangely to all the mako in his system, or doing paperwork was so gods damned boring, that not even artificial stimulants could do anything to keep him awake.

Behind him, the door hissed open, promising a welcome distraction. Zack breathed a sigh of relief. He would do anything right now for an excuse to procrastinate. Grab some beers at a late night bar? Sure. Help the cleaners wax the floors? Not a problem. Then, his heart sank as he turned and saw who’d entered. 

“Sephiroth.” 

Zack hoped he wasn’t here to inquire about the Banora Village report, which was a couple of days overdue. He did not need another person breathing down his neck about it, when Director Deusericus was already emailing him gentle reminders twice a day. If Sephiroth detected the tone of disappointment in Zack’s voice, his expression hardly flickered as he crossed the room. 

“Zack,” Sephiroth acknowledged. Their floor was empty at this hour, the rest of SOLDIER—or whatever was left of it—gone back to the barracks to get some shuteye. Those lucky bastards didn’t have mission reports to write. The silence was eerie. It was not so long ago that there would be new Thirds hanging about the lounge, watching movies, playing foosball, lifting weights in the gym. Now they were all gone, and the stillness was deafening.

“How are you doing?” Sephiroth folded his arms, and found a nearby wall to lean against, so he could observe Zack from exactly the right distance that looked casual, but Zack wondered if it was actually supposed to be implicitly menacing.

Zack sighed. “I hate paperwork.”

“That’s a pity, I enjoy filling in forms.”

“What?” Zack exclaimed. “Really?”

The corners of Sephiroth’s mouth twitched upward in the spectre of a smile. “No.” 

Dammit, that dry humor got him every single time. 

“Nobody likes paperwork.”

“Thanks for getting my hopes up,” Zack said, deflating visibly. “If you wanted to give me a hand, I wasn’t gonna refuse…”

“Pass.”

Zack slumped back into his chair. “Then you’re just gonna stand there and stare at me while I do it?”

“You mean it’s not going to help you finish faster?”

Zack paused, lurching forward again in his chair. “That was another joke, right?” he asked, staring at Sephiroth for any sign he could interpret accurately. 

Sephiroth regarded him back with perfect impassivity. 

Angeal had once told him he’d figure Sephiroth’s humor out eventually, once he got to know the man well enough. Zack made a noise of frustration, annoyed that memories of Angeal had risen unbidden. He didn’t want to think about Angeal at all, but he had to, to finish up the report. And he couldn’t put in any of the things he wanted to, and all the shit he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to face, he’d have to write down. The noise of frustration rose in volume, and Zack rubbed his fingers through his hair, as if the extra stimulation on his scalp could jump-start a few more synapses so he could finally be done.

Sephiroth watched his outburst coolly, the only movement as he did so his green eyes and the unnerving narrowing of his vertically-slit pupils.

“Come with me to the combat simulator,” he said, when Zack’s eruption subsided. He pushed himself from the wall, and walked to the door. He didn’t even look back as he went, he just expected Zack to follow. And since Zack had been looking for a distraction, follow he did.

Zack pushed his chair away from the desk, let it glide on the floors until he began losing momentum, and then he leapt to his feet to catch up. “Should I bring a sword?”

“Your choice.”

Internally, Zack rolled his eyes, but didn’t dare to on the outside, since Sephiroth did outrank him. Better err on the side of respect, even though Angeal had told him a bunch of stories about how the three of them—Angeal, Sephiroth, and Genesis—used to get up to all sorts of stupid shenanigans and practical jokes.

“Come on, give a guy a real answer. Please?”

“Pick whatever you can most live with me kicking your ass at.”

Zack huffed. He also remembered that Angeal had called him a smug bastard. “Hand-to-hand, then.” It also saved him a trip to his locker.

Sephiroth nodded in curt approval. “I feel the need to punch somebody too.”

And that somebody would probably end up being him, unless Sephiroth wanted to run a simulation of a bar room brawl. “Great!” Zack managed.

He stole a glance at Sephiroth and found the man eyeing him back with calm appraisal. And was that a twinkle of amusement in Sephiroth’s eye? Nah, he was probably imagining it.

The simulator was supposed to be shut off after nine o’clock in the evening, supposedly for maintenance and health and safety reasons, but Zack discovered that nothing was off-limits to Sephiroth, when the chamber door opened for his keycard and the virtual reality matrix began initializing at the touch of his hand. 

“You know this doesn’t open up for the rest of us plebs at two a.m., right?” Zack said wryly. The room fell away and he hung suspended in white space while his surroundings were reconstructed, brick by brick. The visual juxtaposition even made him, mako enhanced and all, a little queasy, and he had to close his eyes to avoid feeling ill.

“That’s because I hacked the code.”

“Are you serious?” Zack opened one eye tentatively, and found imposing grey cliffs and the edge of the sea half-materialized around them.

“We hacked it,” Sephiroth corrected. “Genesis, Angeal, and I.” His mouth turned again in a smile, so subtle that Zack wouldn’t have been sure it was there save for the wistfulness in his tone. “When we all made First Class, and we thought rules were just for Seconds and Thirds. Took us about two weeks to finish the job, while everybody kept complaining about the glitching.”

The environment finally finished forming around them. They were standing on a colossal metal beam, a monstrosity jutting far out into the ocean, the Shinra logo emblazoned behind them. They were atop the Sister Ray in Junon Harbor. Zack could hear the song of seabirds, see their silhouettes, small and dark, circling overhead. He fancied he could almost smell the sea breeze, though that was probably just the air circulation system, hidden behind the illusion. It was dusk, that liminal space between the end of one day and the beginning of another. The setting sun turned the sky into brilliant oranges and pinks, which faded into a crystal blue overhead, pricked by faint pinpoints of starlight. If he could have gone anywhere in a simulator, Zack wouldn’t have picked a giant phallic symbol. He wondered if that said anything about Sephiroth’s tastes unconsciously. 

“Can’t blame them,” Zack said, being a Second and all.

“Consider this jaunt paying it forward, then.”

“Actually, I was hoping this was going to be some payback,” Zack said, eyes flashing mischievously. 

“Oh?” Sephiroth stood at ease, his feet a shoulder’s width apart, his uniform casting a dark shadow along the ground while his hair reflected the golden half-light of the sun hovering unmoving on the horizon behind him.

“Yeah, some guy dumped a mission on me. And it fucking ended up sucking.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have done that if he had known.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t change the magnitude of suck that was involved.”

Sephiroth nodded once. 

It felt good to get that squared away, but Zack still had things he needed to get off his chest, and he had the feeling that Sephiroth hadn’t dragged him into the combat simulator to talk through what had happened. 

“Come on, then.” Sephiroth raised a hand, his fingers flicking in a taunt, before they dropped loosely to his sides again. He was completely open. Was this his fighting stance, or his I’m-underestimating-Zack-Fair stance? 

Better make it the latter, Zack decided. “I’m not going easy on ya’,” Zack warned.

“That’s usually my line.”

Zack attacked before Sephiroth finished his sentence. Zack bent his knees for a powerful leap forward and drew his fist back, aiming a punch squarely for Sephiroth’s jaw. He was certain he was going to land it, until Sephiroth wasn’t there anymore. His fist sailed right by, missing by a mile, but Zack’s momentum continued to carry him forward. He felt a hand clamp around his arm just above his elbow, and he felt a sharp pain against his ankle. Zack managed to twist just enough as the world went upside down around him and Sephiroth pitched him forward. He landed in a roll, getting back onto his feet instead of going flying tail over tea kettle. 

He closed the distance again, knowing that keeping Sephiroth on the defense was the only advantage he could press. He had never sparred hand-to-hand with him before—only the Firsts got that very occasional privilege. Zack had no idea how hard Sephiroth could hit, but if he had to hazard a guess, probably about as hard as a speeding train. So, it was best to avoid getting hit. He came in hard and fast, aiming blow after blow—fists, elbows, knees, feet—every part of his body that could be used to strike, from every direction he could think of. Sephiroth evaded most of them and deflected the rest, Zack’s chops being redirected into open air, his kicks turned aside into empty space. 

There was an enviable efficiency to Sephiroth’s movements—no wasted motion, every block, every evasion, every step timed and executed perfectly. He knew exactly where Zack’s range ended, and Sephiroth stayed on the margins of it, just far enough away that the edge of Zack’s palm brushed a few strands of pale hair, but close enough to still keep Zack in his own range. He knew exactly where he needed to be, when the opportunity presented himself. And he made it look easy. 

“You’re open,” Sephiroth said. And then Zack remembered that Sephiroth was left-handed, and he had just taken a step to the wrong side of the man. That was all the warning he got, before the breath left him. 

Zack sailed through the air for longer than he thought he should. When would he stop? He flipped around, hoping to get his feet under him, wherever under actually was. He knew he’d gotten lucky when he felt an impact on his feet, and he curled into it, absorbing the rest of the shock. He was glad he hadn’t landed on his head. Zack staggered back to his feet, disoriented, but upright. Sephiroth stood some thirty feet away, the slight flush of his cheeks the only sign of any exertion. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. 

Zack winced. He was going to have a bruise on his side for a couple of a days, and fancied that if he pulled his shirt off, he could see it forming. “I hope you’re pulling your punches, man.”

“I am,” Sephiroth replied. “Want me to pull them more?” 

No wonder the rest of the Seconds and Thirds were terrified of him, Zack thought. Was that a challenge? Or was that Sephiroth trying to cut him some slack? It sure sounded like the former. 

“Nah, I can take it.” Zack worked a couple of cricks out of his neck. Sephiroth waited patiently, not seizing the initiative. Well, if it was going spare…

With a cry, Zack crossed the distance between them again, rushing Sephiroth with a low feint before striking high with a series of kicks. He launched into the air with another flurry of furious blows. He thought he actually caught Sephiroth with one—he heard the man grunt—but then he realized that Sephiroth had let him land that on purpose, and now Sephiroth had him by the leg. 

Oh, shit.

Zack spun, lashing out with his other leg and letting that pull his body closer for a punch, but Sephiroth dodged, and then the next thing Zack knew he was in the air. Again. Sephiroth had just fucking thrown him, chucked him like a shotput or discus.

“This is not what I had in mind as a kid when I said I wanted to fly,” Zack growled when he landed, heaving huge lungfuls of air to catch his breath. “You better be pulling your throws too.”

“I once stuck Angeal halfway to the fiftieth floor through a ventilation duct.” Okay, that was definitely a smirk on Sephiroth’s face. “I think I have the size of this room figured out.”

“That’s reassuring. You know, I’m never gonna learn anything if it’s just me trying to hit you all the time.”

“You’re asking me to attack you?”

“I dunno. I’ve been punched and kicked in the feels a lot these past few days. Might as well make the outside match the in, you know? Besides, I think you need it out as badly as I do right now.”

Sephiroth lifted an elegant eyebrow dubiously, as if to remark at the audacity Zack had in assuming that Sephiroth, despite his reputation, had feelings. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Zack challenged. 

Anger stirred inside him, and Zack knew he might be digging his grave in a literal sense. Sephiroth was a First, Sephiroth was the First, and they didn’t even know each other that well. But maybe they didn’t need to, because they’d both lost somebody they’d cared about. Maybe Genesis and Angeal didn’t mean the same to Sephiroth as Angeal had meant to him, but they were both in the same little boat, set adrift in a storm without a harbor to go back to. Their friends had deserted them, with hardly a reason or explanation. And they were the bad guys now too? Creating a clone army, attacking people. How fucked up was that? So fucked up that even Sephiroth, raised by Shinra, SOLDIER by birthright—deadly, perfect, cold, and adored by the media and populace for being the living, breathing epitome of a war machine—must in some way feel that it was wrong. That it was unfair. That it was horrible.

And then Shinra had made things a million times worse by obliterating the entire village. For what? Their reputation? Zack had never seen Sephiroth’s jaw so tense as when Director Deusericus and Tseng had debriefed them a few days ago and shown them the images of Genesis’ facility. 

Sephiroth stood stock still in the virtual ever-twilight of the Sister Ray simulation, his expression withdrawn, his brows slightly knit, the only sign of his distress. Zack was still panting for breath, but ready for more punishment, because anything felt better than this impotent helplessness. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, thanks to the pummeling he had unsuccessfully attempted to dish out and the blows he had received in return. But he hadn’t had enough yet. There was years worth of pent-up frustration to unleash, years worth of memories of Angeal—what the hell happened to dreams and honor and everything else that his mentor had drilled into his head and his heart? Had Angeal thrown it all away just because, what, he’d grown some fucking wing? Or had they never meant anything to him at all—just some empty words, when push came to shove?

Tears of frustration, of betrayal and loss stung at the corners of Zack’s eyes. He wiped them with the back of an arm—he’d tell Sephiroth that something had gotten into his eye—but that was the exact moment that Sephiroth came at him.

Way to give a guy a moment, Zack thought. He crouched in defense, bringing his arms up, no time to do anything else. He thought he heard his own bones creak as he caught Sephiroth’s swing. The force of it pushed him backward a few feet before he could find his footing again. 

“Ow,” Zack grimaced. Did all Firsts hit that hard when they were supposed to be going easy? Or was that just Sephiroth? He had a long way to go before he could land a hit that did that much damage. Zack counted his blessings that Sephiroth’s attack had bought him some distance, and therefore time. 

He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his inner turmoil, trying to temper it, channel it into something useful—into going all out against Sephiroth. He could do that here, against him, in a way that he couldn’t against Luxiere or Kunsel or any other SOLDIER left in this gods damned place. And that was good, in a way, knowing that no matter what he did, he still couldn’t harm the Silver General. Scratch that, it was better than good, it was liberating. 

Zack blinked, vision coming into focus—Sephiroth closing the gap, so quickly his hair formed a silver whip behind him. Zack was ready, and that was when the fight truly began.


	4. Gentlemen, Start Your Engines

Sephiroth caught himself just in time, gently placing the glass in his hand and down onto his desk. He had been about to hurl it into the wall. It would have shattered into a myriad of crystal shards over the floor and all over his chair, sharp fragments glancing off his computer screen and falling into the cracks of his keyboard. He took a moment to imagine the satisfaction he would have felt at that small act of destruction, at grinding a piece of it under the toe of his boot. He would have pretended it was the face of Lazard or Tseng, or even President Shinra himself, as puerile as that fantasy would have been. The satisfaction would have lasted only a fleeting moment, however, before being replaced again by frustration. 

Sephiroth was not known for flying into rages or losing control of himself. He was intelligent, rational, and conducted himself in ways that were professional and seemly. He was above giving into momentary outbursts of emotion, even when nobody was watching. Had he broken the glass, he could have gotten someone in to clean up his office, but the better course of action was what he was doing now—pushing the glass away from him and releasing the temptation it presented. He sat back down in his chair, and tilted it backward so he could stare at the ceiling. 

He had spent all morning meticulously reviewing the reports that had been gathered from Banora Village, after reading through Zack’s account, finally completed. He’d approved for it to be sent to Lazard, but not before making a copy of it to keep amongst his own files. He had seen mission reports altered by Shinra before, and he knew better nowadays than to release them up the management chain before storing a facsimile of the original outside of Shinra’s intranet. 

Amongst the pile of other files that he had been able to gather from Zack’s mission, Sephiroth noticed something missing—the data dump from the computer that had been in the factory that had served as Genesis' base of operations. Tseng’s report mentioned that it had been wiped before the village had been destroyed, but Sephiroth had difficulty fathoming the Turks wiping a hard drive and not making off with a copy of it. All of that information—potential scientific and technological advances, tactical data that could have been used to track Genesis Rhapsodos’s whereabouts—gone without a trace? Unthinkable. And mildly insulting, to think that he wouldn’t notice such a glaring omission. If they knew where Genesis was or if they had a way of finding him, Sephiroth wanted that information too.

He had gone straight to Director Deusericus to explain the discrepancy and request a copy, and Lazard had reassured him of its non-existence. Better to let those secrets disappear, he’d said. Sephiroth hadn’t believed that for a second. He had spent so many hours of his childhood in the training suites and in the laboratories—Hojo’s lab, in particular—having electrodes taped to his body, having his body scanned, having his blood drawn and biopsies taken, he was furious that they thought him either so naive or so docile that he would accept such a pitiful excuse for a lie. He had then marched straight into Director Veld’s office, but the man had also denied the existence of a copy of those files. Sephiroth sent an email directly to Heidegger, but was yet to be dignified with a response.

“Fuck,” Sephiroth growled, putting aside the morning’s frustrations as he closed his eyes. He was saved from any further violent contemplations—such as hurling his computer screen into the wall—when his phone chirped its reminder tone. 

_Time for a break?_ The pop-up notification asked him innocently. 

He had almost forgotten about his appointment. Sephiroth rose and composed himself. A coffee would be welcome, even though what the company served in the free machines tasted like shit. A few of the new cadets, who had yet to receive their mako injections, stiffened automatically into salutes when Sephiroth stepped out of his office, a ridiculous habit left over from their training in the PSD. If he required deference from every SOLDIER whenever he walked past, nobody would ever get any work done. It was a miracle the PSD did, if one had to salute an officer above a certain rank even when they were going about their regular business.

“You’re SOLDIER now,” Sephiroth said simply, as he passed. Angeal would have taken them aside for a gentle life lesson in times past—something about pride or SOLDIER honor. Now, nobody stepped up to teach them in his absence, though the cleverer ones snapped out of their salutes quickly, looking chagrined. Sephiroth made a mental note to have a word with Zack about it.

They hadn’t spoken since their cathartic sparring session in the combat simulator a few nights ago, but they’d passed each other in the halls since, exchanging nods of acknowledgement, which they didn't used to do, when Sephiroth had just seen him as Angeal's protégé. Sephiroth smiled faintly, he could see so much of Angeal’s technique in Zack, in the surety of his strikes, in the unrelenting way he charged an opponent, and in his slightly wounded pride after a defeat, even though he'd had no hope of winning. Zack Fair was now the only piece of Angeal that Sephiroth had left, save for all the memories.

Remembering his friend dissipated the irritation from the morning's fruitless efforts, and put him in a melancholy mood as he left the administrative area’s offices and meeting rooms. He made his way down the hall to the observation lounge, where the floor-to-ceiling glass windows afforded the SOLDIERs a view of the city. It was a grim, overcast day, and reflected Sephiroth’s mood too much for him to enjoy the panorama, though he spent a few moments looking at it anyway, before turning away. There was a men’s restroom tucked away in the corner here. It was ill-used because it was small and cramped, and far from where the SOLDIERs usually socialized. It was a leftover from the building’s original plans, likely when the architects had envisioned the forty-ninth floor to hold offices and cubicles, and not a training facility for an elite branch of the military. It had probably been too expensive to take out and redo the plumbing, so the company left it in. Sephiroth swung the door open and stepped inside.

There was the rustling of undergarments and clothes in one of the two stalls, followed shortly by a flush of the toilet. Kunsel emerged, checked that the other stall was empty, and then sauntered up to him. 

“Managed to dig up some of the info you asked for,” he said, producing a small memory chip from a pocket. Kunsel dropped it in his palm, and Sephiroth closed his fingers around it. “Still looking for the rest, though. Anything else I can get you in the meantime?”

“Yes, but it’s more recent,” Sephiroth replied as he pocketed the data that Kunsel had handed him.

“Oh yeah?”

“I believe there’s a dump from Banora Village,” said Sephiroth carefully. “But it’s going to be tough to get a hold of.”

Kunsel frowned in consideration. “How tough?”

“Tseng levels of tough.”

Kunsel blanched at the mention of the Turk's name. “I take it’s still along the same lines of what I’m already looking for?”

Sephiroth nodded.

Kunsel spent another few seconds deep in the thought. “I’ll do my best, but no guarantees,” he warned, even though his mako-infused blue eyes were beginning to glitter with excitement at the challenge that stealing information from the Turks presented.

“Thank you,” said Sephiroth, as Kunsel moved on to the one sink and washed his hands.

“No problem,” Kunsel grinned. “I enjoy a challenge now and again.” And that was it for the exchange as he shook the water from his hands, dried them off with a couple of paper towels and not the pitifully underpowered air dryers, and left Sephiroth to do his business. 

Sephiroth noted with satisfaction that fewer cadets jumped up to salute him as he made his way back to his office, with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. The data chip weighed heavily in his pocket as the door slid shut behind him, and he was tempted to pop it into his computer and take a peek at its contents, but knew better than to do anything so foolish on a machine connected to Shinra’s internal network. Kunsel had been passing him intel for more than a year. It had started as an informal heads up on the rumor mill and the political jockeying of the Shinra Executives and word on the street about the movements of Wutai guerilla forces. Since Genesis’ disappearance and the desertion of almost half of SOLDIER along with him, however, Sephiroth had started using Kunsel’s intelligence gathering knack for more serious matters. It was more informative than relying on the trickle-down reports from on high, which were always heavily redacted or paraphrased, so sanitized by the time they reached him that they weren’t that much better than useless. If the company was going to keep him in the dark, he could hardly be blamed for conducting his own investigation under the radar. 

Sephiroth trusted Kunsel to be discreet about his clandestine, off-the-books activities, and to know his limits. He made it a point never to order Kunsel to find information, but to ask, and let Kunsel have the right to refuse if he thought the task too difficult or the risk of exposure too dangerous. But Kunsel had yet to decline, and Sephiroth refused to betray the man’s trust by doing something stupid himself. So he resigned himself to waiting until evening, when he could have a moment in private outside of the Shinra building.

He went back to his emails, hardly through half of his coffee when there came a firm knock on his door. Sephiroth frowned, looking up from his screen at the hazy shadow on the other side of the frosted glass. He thought his calendar was supposed to be clear. He adopted a neutral expression, suppressing a deep sigh. 

“Come in.”

The door opened to reveal Laszlo Blaise, Lazard’s administrative assistant, a mild-looking, balding middle-aged man who dressed disarmingly in cardigans and corduroy, but Sephiroth had known him long enough not to be taken in by his appearance.

“Apologies for disturbing you,” Laszlo said, not sounding sorry at all. “Here is the list of those declared missing and killed in action from the Fort Tamblin campaign. Also, Public Relations has come back with a draft of your speech for the memorial services in two weeks’ time.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth said. He had asked for that list when the peace treaty had been signed months ago. It had taken them that long to compile? Sephiroth hid his annoyance beneath carefully crafted professionalism, as Laszlo slid a datapad across his desk. “And please inform PR that I usually use Colonel Lagarde’s team for my speeches.”

“We have,” replied Laszlo.

And they still sent him the draft.

“The ceremonies honoring those who died serving are being personally overseen by the President’s Chief of Operations,” Laszlo explained.

“And not Lagarde.” The colonel was the military’s operational head, who normally assumed the responsibility of any pomp and circumstance related to the armed forces.

“President’s orders.”

So he was being personally trotted out as a media mouthpiece by the President to reassure the public. Nothing to see here, nothing to worry about with the war over—nevermind about the mass desertion of our most powerful military operatives, and their abominable misuse of cloning technology, as if Shinra’s own R&D and science departments were any less nefarious.

“Very well,” Sephiroth said. He didn’t like acquiescing, but any argument would have been escalated higher than Lazard, and even he had only so many battlefronts he could fight at one time. 

Laszlo nodded, satisfied with his response, and retreated.

Sephiroth picked up the datapad that had been left behind, and tabbed through the list. It hadn’t been organized by any system or order that he could discern, just a collection of people slapped together haphazardly with about as much care as the company normally treated its troops. He scanned through the hodgepodge of names until he finally found two bubbled up from the jumble—Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley, killed in action. Sephiroth stared, stunned. But they were still alive! Zack had seen them both not one week ago in Banora Village. They were missing, not dead. The edges of Sephiroth’s vision began to darken, and he forcibly drew a breath when he realized that it had been a long time since he’d last taken one. 

Shinra Company and SOLDIER were washing their hands of them. He understood why Genesis was on that list, his old friend had gone too far by taking off and creating an army of clones of himself while convincing so many to go alongside him. But what was Angeal’s crime, save for desertion? Sephiroth didn’t know whose side his old friend was on, but there was no proof Angeal had done anything.

The datapad he clutched in his hand began to tremble, and its thin metal casing began to creak. Sephiroth let it go, and it clattered onto his desk. Distinct indentations were left in its aluminum shell where he had been gripping it. 

There was no coming back to SOLDIER for Genesis or Angeal. The days Sephiroth had spent with his friends—training, fighting, fooling around and getting stupidly drunk together—were gone for good. Genesis had thrown all of that away when he’d left without so much as a word. Angeal, too, had chosen to discard their years of friendship, the decade they had spent in each other's company, building and forging SOLDIER from the irons of Shinra’s restrictive, narrow vision into a place where dreams, honor, and pride mattered.

Angeal had always been the one who had wanted SOLDIER to be more than just an elite, mako-enhanced fighting force, wanted them to be more than just machines who unquestioningly obeyed Shinra’s orders. When they’d been young cadets, he was the one who had first taught Sephiroth to examine why they were receiving the orders they did, why Shinra sent them on the missions they did. Who benefited, who lost, who suffered? Angeal was the one who had made him question—when his every action, his every promotion, and his very trajectory in life had been laid out for him in some twisted corporate predestination. And it was Genesis who had given him the bravery to rebel, to issue his own orders on the battlefield, to take decisions and consequences into his own hands. It was Genesis who had taught him how to appreciate art and beauty, who had dared him all those years ago, perhaps with a hint of malicious resentment, to approach the drag queen Andrea Rhodea’s tent after her performance for his troops about to be deployed to enemy territory.

Without them, Sephiroth thought he might really have become Shinra’s perfect war machine, a subservient instrument of terrible destruction. He was more, and SOLDIER was more, but now it was all left to him. Angeal had always been the most dependable out of the three of them, the one who took care of the Seconds and Thirds, who instilled dreams and honor into them in place of the mindless discipline of the PSD. He had spent a few nights at the bedsides of those cadets who reacted poorly to the mako injections, making sure they didn’t die alone, if sometimes they did, and making sure they weren’t fighting for survival by themselves, if they recovered. The inspirational speeches were a bit much—Sephiroth and Genesis used to snigger from the shadows while he gave them, but nobody cared as much for SOLDIER as Angeal had. There wasn’t one left who hadn’t been tutored by him in sword, hand-to-hand, or magic. He spent the most time reviewing their monthly reports, to make sure they were progressing apace and not lagging behind. During the war, it was Angeal who had spent the most time with Sephiroth, pulling all nighters, discussing tactics, reviewing simulations, planning operations—Angeal had even looked after him.

Now, Angeal and Genesis were lost to SOLDIER forever, and they were all poorer for it. Even Genesis had taught the Thirds and Seconds in their own way, mainly by dangling their envy of Sephiroth’s superiority in front of them—how could they ever expect to live up to the name of SOLDIER if they couldn’t aspire to defeat The Great General Sephiroth? It was pettiness on Genesis’ part, but it had also gotten results. Now there was no one to take their places. Of the other Firsts left, Gongsun and Okope were the most trustworthy, but they were out on assignment, quelling the Wutai resistance cells who refused to concede to the peace treaty. There were few Firsts left, and in their absence, the responsibility of leading SOLDIER either fell on him or fell through entirely. Genesis and Angeal had made their choices, and once again Sephiroth was left the only one who had yet to be offered any choice at all. 

Sephiroth was saved from his own thoughts taking a turn toward the bitter when his phone buzzed. Not his Shinra-issued mobile, but his private phone, the one he had purchased with his own secretly-earned proceeds from his occasional evening hobby. There were only three people in the world who had that number, and two of them had stopped answering his messages. Hope still sparked in him whenever it vibrated, but he tempered that emotion quickly. 

He slipped the phone from his pocket, and furtively glanced at his door to make sure nobody was approaching. 

My brother has to drop out of tonight’s show, so if you could grace us with your presence, you are welcome to it.

Sephiroth closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. There were too many hours left until evening, and he was sorely tempted to get up and leave now, even though that would leave his list of responsibilities longer than it had ever been. After spending all morning denying himself surrender to his impulses, he could not deny himself this. Argenta Rhodea was his only act of defiance against the company that had dictated his every decision and the course his life had taken. It was still a secret rebellion, but that was enough for him.

Save your headlining spot for me, Mother.

* * *

**Subject:** [Argenta’s Ardents] [ALERT] Performance Tonight

We have received information that Argenta Rhodea will put in a surprise appearance at the Honeybee Inn tonight, replacing Julie B. Bootie’s originally scheduled show. The Diamonds and Destiny posters just went up around Wall Market, only two weeks after her previous appearance! May we extend enthusiastic condragulations to any ticket holders for tonight’s performance, and wish good luck to those who will be waiting for the day’s returned ticket lottery. 

As always, any reviews and photos should be posted in the Performances section of the member forum, and not via the mailing list to the entire group.

We also ask that our members respect our queen’s privacy and not follow her chocobo carriage beyond the walls of Wall Market after the show. 

**Attachment:** posters_tonight.jpg

* * *

Cloud’s phone buzzed conspicuously during a lull in the lunchtime conversation. He never had much to add when it came to the arrangement of cam shafts and transmission systems, but he enjoyed the flow of voices around him, and didn’t feel the need to add his own. For the past week, he’d been eating lunch with Roche and his fellow gearheads, because Roche had steered him over one day and sat him down amongst the rest of his friends. Cloud was good at riding, at least in the simulator, and that made him cool enough to be tolerated. Roche had told him his only problem was that he didn’t care enough about engines, but Cloud thought that Roche’s problem was that he cared too much. 

“Ooo! What’s that?” A grinning brunette with a ponytail named Giselle asked, regarding Cloud archly over the top of her drink. “Message from your girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend, more like,” snorted Tomas, who Cloud didn’t like because he was the guy who always had to be meaner than everybody else, and he kept insinuating in a derogatory fashion that Cloud was probably gay. 

“Knock it off, Tom,” Roche warned, kicking him under the table. “It’s not fucking funny.”

“It is to me.”

“Well, nobody else is laughing, so shut the hell up.”

“Fine, whatever,” Tomas grumbled. 

Giselle rolled her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. The only word that Cloud caught was something about ‘men’, and it didn’t sound particularly complimentary. Nobody else at the table said anything as Cloud sneaked a quick look at his phone, and his breath hitched. 

“So what is it? What’s so urgent?” Giselle asking again, her tone kinder this time as she leaned to look over his shoulder at his screen. 

“Just some spam,” Cloud replied casually, and snapped his phone shut. His mobile was a couple of generations old, and he’d bought off of one of the other recruits who had wanted some spare cash to put toward a newer one. The screen was tiny, and trying to type on the nine-digit keypad was a royal pain in the ass, but it was fine for reading, so he could stay up to date with the conversation in Argenta Rhodea’s fanclub. Since the phone was one of the indestructible flip models, before they’d moved onto the fancy big touch screens, it was small enough to fit into the pockets of his fatigues. 

“See, boyfriend,” said Tomas, and then “Ow!” as Giselle kicked him again. 

“Why, you jealous?” Roche snorted. “You’d be lucky to get anybody to look at you longer than they had to.”

Giselle and Cloud both snickered at Tomas’ expense. Tomas glowered at all of them, but stopped cracking derogatory gay jokes and went back to talking about bikes, which was a relief.

Cloud allowed his mind to wander as the conversation picked up. Was there any chance of at least swinging a ticket to tonight’s show? He had spent every spare moment since he’d gotten the phone reading up on years’ worth of discussion, news, and speculation on Argenta’s Ardents. There was the occasional ticket-trading talk for those who couldn’t make certain performances for various reasons and wanted to try their luck on a different date. Cloud learned that were sales at the door, but they were only available rarely for the tickets that had been rescinded—apparently the Honeybee Inn reserved the right to expel a pastron if they got too handsy with the Honeygirls or Honeyboys—so there was a small chance of catching the tail end of a show, even one of Argenta’s numbers, if it was a night she was performing. The few people on the forums who had gotten lucky in this way had testified that it was worth it. 

Afternoon drills were gruelling as usual, Cloud steadfastly ignoring the buzz of his phone against his thigh as he crawled through tires in the mud, did jumping jacks until he ran out of breath, and fired his rifle until his shoulder ached with the force of the recoil. Then they had fifteen minutes to shower and make it across to the other side of the base for their final day of EVR training. That meant he wouldn’t get to see Lieutenant Kunsel again, and he was going to miss him something fierce. He was the kindest of their instructors, or at least the one who barked at them the least. Cloud didn’t want to have to go back to being taught by all PSD sergeants, who seemed to regard their job less as teaching, and more as making the recruits’ lives as miserable as possible.

The class started off with the final simulator session, Kunsel coaching them in small groups of three or four through the final basic maneuvers they’d have to know in order to fully qualify as infantry. Afterward, while the rest sat a written theory exam, Kunsel pulled Cloud and Roche aside for special advanced instruction. Cloud was keenly aware of the other recruits’ envious gazes, particularly Giselle and Tomas, who longed to join them.

Cloud donned the virtual reality headset, closing his eyes to avoid the disorienting motion sickness as his environment coalesced around him. He opened his eyes when it finished, and found himself on the Midgar Highway, standing in the shadow of Shinra headquarters in Sector 0. It was night, the streets lit with fluorescent mako and a pale moonlight sheen that was obscured by the occasional low cloud passing overhead. This was different than any scenario Kunsel had ever set for them. Most of them had been realistic infantry training routines—a chase in rush hour traffic, escorting emergency vehicles during a terrorist attack, and advanced pursuit maneuvers. They had been during the daytime, when visibility was good and the roads were clogged. Cloud was excited for whatever this was, but he had another more burning question on his mind. 

“Did you see the alert about tonight?” he asked eagerly, as soon as Kunsel materialized in the simulation beside them. 

“So, what’s this special scenario?”

Cloud and Roche looked at each other with frowns, disapproving of the other’s priorities.

“Of course,” Kunsel said, responding to Cloud first, “but we can talk about that later. I have the feeling Roche is going to speed off unless I explain this training exercise.”

“I might,” Roche admitted. He eyed the two motorcycles before them, the latest model Hardy-Daytona Sebring, boasting Shinra’s newest 1,200 cc V4 DOHC engine. It was a stripped down version of the frame, lacking the armor and extra storage capacity they had come to expect of PSD-issued bikes. These were light and minimal, optimized for racing and speed, not for taking down terrorists or serving in defense of a supply convoy. Cloud could see Roche’s fingers twitch impatiently to climb into the saddle. He had the good sense to wait for the go-ahead from the lieutenant, but only just.

“Good thing it’s easy, then,” said Kunsel, also sensing Roche’s eagerness. “For your last lesson, you will race each other from here to the Warehouse District in Sector 3. You can use any route you want, you can try to battle each other or just see who’s the fastest on a bike. The virtual streets are all yours.”

Cloud paused, waiting for more, but Kunsel regarded them expectantly. “A race? That’s it?”

“Yes,” Kunsel nodded simply.

“You sure this isn’t some excuse for you to get some paperwork done on class time or catch up on that little fanclub mailing list you’re both on?” Roche asked suspiciously.

“That sounds like the type of concern coming from somebody who doesn’t want to race,” Kunsel said.

“Oh, I wanna race,” said Roche. “Might even be an advantage if you’re distracting Cloud talking about your favorite drag queen and all.”

“You wish,” Cloud said, clambering on his bike. He fired it up, and its engine growled like a feral cat on idle. “I can talk about Argenta all day with Lieutenant Kunsel and still beat you.”

“You don’t even know how to get from here to Sector 3,” Roche retorted. He started up his own bike, and revved it experimentally, his smile widening into a grin as it roared like a tethered beast, champing at its bit.

Roche was right. Cloud’s knowledge of Midgar’s roads was still rudimentary. He had enlisted in the PSD immediately upon arriving from Nibelheim, and thus had hardly spent any time in the city. He knew that Shinra HQ was Sector 0 in the center and that there were eight consecutively numbered plates, so Sector 3 was one of them, radially outward from where they were now. 

“Maybe figuring it out is part of the challenge,” Cloud said, gesturing at the road before them where a prominent sign directed them toward ‘Sectors 1–4’ in one direction, and ‘Sectors 5–8’ in the opposite. “It’s not like you know every single street.” 

“No, but I know all the big ones and how the plates connect.” Roche grinned wolfishly.

“Great,” said Kunsel brightly. “Strife gets a fifteen second head start, then.”

“Fifteen seconds?!” Roche exclaimed. “That’s a bit much don’t you think? ...Uh, sir.”

“You said you knew all the major streets. Seems like a fair handicap to me. You don’t have to race if you’re afraid you’re going to lose.”

“Fine,” said Roche, unhappily. “Fifteen seconds it is, but you’re going to need every single damned one,” he warned.

“I intend to use them,” Cloud reassured his friend. He had no clue where the finish line was, but he supposed he’d have to use his head and figure it out as he went along. “What do I get when I win?”

Roche scoffed. 

“Besides glory?” Kunsel asked, with a small smile. He thought about the answer for a moment. “How about I sign you out of the barracks tonight?”

Cloud’s hands closed about the handle bars. As long as he had a way out tonight, he could make his way to Wall Market. Yes!

“Hey, what about me?” protested Roche.

“Same thing,” said Kunsel. “You got places you wanna be, right?”

“Not as bad as this guy,” Roche said, cocking a thumb in Cloud’s direction. 

Cloud grinned back, full of excitement, his heart soaring. He put his foot on the gas, spun the bike around, and sped off, waving Roche a cheeky _adios_.

A timer started, ghostly neon numbers hovering in the sky, counting down from fifteen seconds.

Roche watched them, leaning over his bike. He stroked a hand over its chassis, communing with it, trying to establish that elusory connection between man and machine. It was the longest fifteen seconds of Roche’s life before he sped off in hot pursuit, leaving Kunsel still standing, alone.

As he tore along the Midgar Highway, Roche did not see Kunsel’s image flicker and disappear as the SOLDIER logged out of the simulation. With Cloud and Roche occupied with their race, and the rest of his students sitting a written examination, Kunsel was free to access some of the historical archives held here on the training base. He tapped into the system easily, disguising the trail of data flow as a routine diagnostic scan. He had tracked the existence of some old files on Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley here. Sephiroth had tasked him with finding some information, and Kunsel didn’t want to disappoint.


	5. Let's Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pure self-indulgence on my part, and consists entirely of the motorcycle race between Cloud and Roche, because I love writing vehicle chases, and nothing Final Fantasy VII is quite complete without an adrenaline-pumping motorcycle chase.

“Focus,” Cloud chided himself as he sped along the Midgar Highway. “Focus.” He was so giddy that Lieutenant Kunsel had offered to sign the winner out of the barracks for the night. There was never any guarantee of the Honeybee’s expulsion seats being offered on any given night, but it wasn’t as if Cloud had anything better to do. His plans otherwise were to study up on Basic Medical so he could pass the big exam at the end of training, but that seemed ages away, whereas he had a chance now, however remote, of seeing Argenta Rhodea again. It was worth a try for the cost of the train ride down to the slums and back—maybe Kunsel would even come with him. It wasn’t as if Cloud would be able to study anyway, knowing that Argenta was performing and he wasn’t at least trying to get a glimpse of her. 

He sped under an overpass, glancing at the numbers in the sky showing five seconds and counting down faster than time seemed to pass. Then he realized he’d missed the row of highway signs overhead, and sailed past what looked like an exit ramp on his right. Shit! He had to win this. 

Cloud reviewed what he knew of the layout of Midgar. The highway itself was a complex, interwoven web of high-speed expressways and bridges between the plates, branching in a convoluted path radially outward from Sector 0. Since the plates had been constructed piecemeal, with Sectors 1 and 2 older than the rest of the city, the connections between the highways and roads, instead of being built using organized polar coordinates, had instead wandered haphazardly according to the needs of Shinra and city’s residents at the time they were constructed. He knew that between some sectors there would be three or four bridges connecting the plates, whereas for others there might just be one. He also knew that Sector 6, the fallen plate, had yet to be rebuilt, So all the traffic between Sectors 5 and 7 had to be diverted around it, back to the Sector 0 ring road. That piece of the road was notorious for being the most congested part of the Midgar Highway at all times of day and night. He could not afford straying there accidentally and getting stuck. The shortest distance between his likely position and Sector 3 would be the path along the Sector 0 ring road until its Sector 3 branch, so Cloud decided to place his bets on that route.

He wove between the simulated traffic as he sped along, opening the throttle of the Sebring’s engine. The exhaust rumbled pleasurably when he accelerated, and he could even feel the vibration of the chassis between his legs. Okay, maybe Roche was onto something with motorcycles. Cloud cut in and out of the shoulder as he traveled, dodging around debris to pass slow-moving freight trucks and other, unfortunate motorcyclists with lesser engines. He looked up every time he approached a road sign, waiting for his turnoff—he’d already passed the ramps for Sectors 1 and 2. 

Behind him he could hear the telltale roar of an engine being revved to the redline. Cloud thought he had gotten a better head start than that—he and Roche had the same bikes, how could the man have caught up with him so quickly? He risked a glance behind him to see how far of a lead he still had, and realized that the vehicle gaining on him wasn't the slim silhouette of a motorcycle, but a car instead. Blinded by the headlights, Cloud couldn’t make out what it was until it was nearly upon him, still accelerating even as it approached. Cloud maneuvered out of the way in a rush, finding a space ahead of a military transport. If he’d been paying attention, he would have been impressed by the realism of the simulation, since a PSD specialist leaned out the window and flipped him the bird, but Cloud was instead staring at the car as it pulled up alongside his Sebring before leaping forward, leaving him staring after it in his wake. 

It was a jet black sports car, a Shinra La Sarthe, its slick contours reflecting the lamps lining the highway as it barrelled onward, engines whining. It was one of the models that Cloud remembered from his childhood, the vehicle having graced the walls of many of his friends’ bedrooms. Half of the world had dreamed of owning that particular model, but only a handful had ever been able to afford it. It was sleek and moved like flowing water, continuously pouring forward on the asphalt as it diminished from Cloud’s view. He had seen a flash of silver in the driver’s seat as it passed him, and even the smallest glimmer of that scintillating white light had made Cloud’s breath hitch. 

_Sephiroth._

Cloud shifted into a lower gear to get a burst of acceleration to follow the La Sarthe, when he remembered that he was in a simulation. Who the hell had programmed Sephiroth into this simulation? And did he actually own a classic La Sarthe in real life? Approaching green signs on an overpass encroached on Cloud’s train of thought and pointed him toward Sector 4.

When had he missed the offramp for Sector 3? Cloud darted into the exit lane recklessly, barely checking over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t already a vehicle travelling in the space he needed to be in. He wouldn’t die if he ran into anything here, but had the feeling that it would either eject him from the race, or Kunsel would otherwise find some way to count it against him if he crashed. Cloud missed a pickup truck by mere inches as he leaned harder to the right and made it onto the ramp just before the fork ended in a concrete barrier. He’d have to get his bearings and figure out how to circle back, unless there wasn’t an exit for Sector 3 at all from the Sector 0 ring road. Was that why Kunsel had set the sector as their finish line, because navigating to it wasn’t straightforward?

Cloud wound his way between lanes to the head of the stopped traffic at the intersection, weighing up his decision. He could turn left, go back the way he came in case he missed something, or he could move forward and find another road that would lead him deeper into Sector 4, and then find a place to cross the plate. The light turned green, and Cloud decided to continue straight. 

The freeway ended as Cloud encountered the edge of the middle-class residential neighborhoods, not a long way into Sector 4. Cloud roared through two-lane streets, storming ahead of the suburban traffic, flitting into the oncoming lane when he needed to pass. His only hope of getting into Sector 3 was sticking close to the edge of the plate, and hoping the bridge connecting the sectors wasn’t too far away. It was better to be charging down here in a simulation than in real life with the racket his Hardy Daytona Sebring made as its thunderous exhaust echoed amongst the tightly packed houses. 

Cloud stayed on the long straight that started parallel to the plate’s edge, but the further he rode, the deeper into the plate it took him, into the warren of residential communities and their tiny streets with many twists and turns. Cloud grimaced. He could vaguely judge his trajectory by the third mako reactor rising too far on his left—he would end up too far away from Sector 3 if he continued like this, he needed to get back to the plate’s edge. His tires squealed against the tarmac as he turned west at the next intersection, cars honking as he swerved around them and they skidded to avoid a collision. Cloud kept going, not bothering to look behind him. The street ahead looked promisingly perpendicular to the plate, and it widened into another lane, a good sign that it was a major tributary. Cloud opened the throttle and tore forward, bracing himself against the sheer acceleration that the Sebring unleashed at full power. His heart hammered against his chest as he moved onto the bridge that crossed the great divide separating the plates. Giant barriers of concrete and steel lined the edges of the road, blocking wind and weather, giving Cloud the feeling that he was merely travelling on a regular road, as opposed to a structure suspended hundreds of meters in the air with nothing but metal beams and a few feet of cement between him and plummeting to his death. Cloud shuddered and tried not to think about what the bridge would feel like when not in a simulation. Would it sway in the wind, just like it was doing now?

The concrete reflected the noise of the traffic back, and Cloud thought he could hear his own engines roaring in his ears. It was then he realized the sound magnification wasn’t an echo, and neither was it the spectre of General Sephiroth and the La Sarthe the simulation had given him a glimpse of. It was Roche, hot on his tail. 

He had been hoping that Roche’s absence meant that he carved out large enough of a lead, but as he heard the man gaining on him, he realized it was going to be an all out scramble for the finish. At least his friend’s appearance meant one thing—he was going in the right direction. That knowledge let Cloud release the last of the Sebring’s speed as he shifted into the final gear. He’d been hesitant to reach top speed in the quiet residential communities of Sector 4, for fear of hitting a dead end or running into a simulated child chasing a simulated ball—Kunsel would give him minus points for killing pedestrians, surely—but here on the bridge, completely blocked off from opposing traffic, there was nothing to lose and all of the coming evening’s freedom to gain. 

Cloud leaned left and right, heaving in deep breaths as the tachometer reached the red zone. There were no headwinds here as he ducked between traffic, and he wondered how much better it would feel if he could ride like this on the real streets someday, with the breeze in his hair.

He charged across the rest of the bridge, the sound of Roche not far behind him, and gaining. Cloud chose a direction at random as the road dumped him into Sector 3. He didn’t know exactly where the warehouse district was, but when presented with different options at the intersection he charged through it, and away from the signs that pointed toward the shopping center. 

“Think you can get away from me, hm?” 

Cloud glanced over his shoulder to find Roche grinning, just one bike lengths away. Cloud cursed and turned forward again, looking for when the dense commercial area they were riding through would turn more sparse, scouring street signs for any hint of when to turn off. 

“I don’t need to get away from you,” Cloud shouted back. “I just need to get to the finish line first!”

Roche laughed and pulled alongside Cloud. There was a strange glint in his eyes, a manic energy in the way his body bent over the motorcycle, in the way the bike accelerated in a burst at his touch, and then matched Cloud’s speed perfectly. It was as if the motorcycle was not driven by combustion, gears, or throttle, but by Roche’s sheer force of will. 

Why was he racing? Cloud looked at Roche’s grinning face, which wasn’t looking back at him, but watching the road in an almost trance-like state. Roche was ignoring him now, ignoring his surroundings. His friend had always said he liked riding, but only now did Cloud understand how much. The road called to Roche, the exhilaration of speed, the blare of the exhaust, the union of him and his motorcycle, its engine, transmission, and chassis, all under his perfect command. Roche didn’t care about winning the prize, the way that Cloud did. All that was on the line for Roche was the addictive churn of endorphins in his blood. He just wanted to go faster, be faster.

Cloud’s resolve flickered for a moment. He didn’t know if he could beat Roche, if his desire to see Argenta Rhodea again—a woman he’d only seen and heard of barely two weeks ago—was greater than Roche’s intoxication with the euphoria of the ride. Cloud grit his teeth and ripped his gaze away from his friend, turning back to the streets. 

The buildings in the sector were beginning to thin around them, gleaming glass towers giving way to lower, squat blocks which then began to lengthen into long, flat buildings. The road narrowed, the other traffic at night having long ago abandoned them. There were fewer lights in this area of the city, with large expanses of road cloaked in darkness and broken only by the occasional solitary streetlamp. They were in an industrial area now, so the warehouse district couldn’t be far away. What if he was travelling parallel to the final stretch, what if he overshot the finish line because it was two streets over?

Cloud tried to scan his surroundings while also keeping one eye out for sudden movements from Roche, who was starting to inch in front of him, when he spotted a faint glow ahead of him on the horizon, toward his right. It wasn’t the dazzle of a searchlight, nor the piercing brilliance of a mako reactor. It was an unmoving sliver of light and cast no reflection in the clouds, shining alien to the environment of the city around them. The finish line! The simulation must be projecting it for them, the same way that the countdown for Cloud’s handicap had hovered in the sky. 

Wordlessly, Cloud turned right at his next opportunity, cutting through what looked like a distribution center full of containers, loading docks, and trucks parked for the night. Roche turned right beside him, as nimbly as if the decision to divert had been his own. Cloud rode through, not managing to pull ahead of Roche despite trying to lose him inside a maze of containers. 

They came out of the other side of the depot together, and Cloud turned a swift left, leaning hard on his bike to keep it upright as he pulled onto a long, empty straight. Industrial lots, empty for the night, stood on either side of the street. He could see the finish line’s unnatural light grow brighter ahead with every meter. He was heading right for it, but still hadn’t shaken Roche. Cloud didn’t know how his friend was eking out every bit of power his engine produced, but if he didn’t do something, he was going to lose. Roche was undoubtedly the superior rider. 

If this had been a PSD-modified Sebring, it would have had compartments for a nightstick, a rack for a rifle, and plenty of ammunition stored in it. In this lightened racer, there was only one compartment. Cloud opened it anyway, willing to accept whatever straws he might find in his search for something to turn the tide. He pulled out a single EMP mine. If detonated correctly, one of these things could take out any vehicles in a ten-meter radius by electrocuting the driver and also melting the metal wires inside any engine bay, but they were timed on a five-second countdown. 

As part of their EVR maneuvers, they had practiced releasing a whole host of these in a pursuit scenario, which required riding ahead of the target and dropping the mine, but there was no chance that Cloud was going to overtake Roche by more than five seconds before he crossed the line. If his timing was good, Cloud realized that he could use the mine more akin to the way he’d use a grenade. There was no room for error, though, Cloud couldn’t miss his throw, and he couldn’t release it too early or too late. Roche probably wouldn’t be electrocuted, since this was a simulation, but the program might allow him to take out Roche’s bike. Kunsel had said they could battle, and both Cloud and Roche had played more honorably than that so far, Roche probably only because he didn’t want fighting to diminish the pleasure of the ride. But Cloud had to see Argenta Rhodea again, even if it was only for the few seconds when her chocobo carriage dropped her off in front of the Honeybee Inn. He had spent every spare waking moment thinking of her since Kunsel had taken him to the show some two weeks ago. She had seemed so strong, so beautiful and mesmerizing. Cloud was obsessed, but even acknowledging that didn’t make him feel it any less, didn’t lessen his desire to see her.

Cloud counted the seconds as he armed the mine. He was still side by side with Roche, his friend’s gaze strangely intent on the finish line, which was fast approaching a few hundred meters down the road. 

“Sorry, Roche,” Cloud said. Roche turned to him, his glazed eyes suddenly focusing as Cloud threw the EMP mine, and it attached with a metallic thunk to the Sebring’s large dual exhaust pipes. 

Cloud pulled away as sharply as he dared, diving to his left to escape the blast radius. He still felt the impact of the explosion, his bike wobbling and juddering, and almost knocking him into the pavement, where he surely would have fallen over if his wheels caught the gutter the wrong way. 

“Steady, now.”

A second pair of hands clamped over Cloud’s on the handlebars, and a body pressed itself close against his back and attempted to wrest control of the motorcycle away. Cloud whipped his head around—Roche was on his bike! 

_What the—_

Roche must have jumped before the EMP blast had taken out his bike, but Cloud had already been pulling away by then to the other side of the road. No ordinary man could jump that far. A mako-enhanced SOLDIER like General Sephiroth or Lieutenant Kunsel, maybe, but Roche was a mere recruit. Cloud didn’t have the time to figure this one out.

“Get off of me!” he shouted and started elbowing Roche and swerving wildly, anything to unseat him. 

Roche clung on doggedly, trying to avoid Cloud’s elbows, while still keeping control of the steering as best he could. He clamped his thighs securely about the saddle, refusing to be shaken off. The finish line was within view and fast approaching, Cloud could see the holographic demarcation of the end of the race, but Roche was still on his bike. 

Cloud made one last desperate attempt. He braked sharply, and spun, hoping that the centrifugal force would throw Roche off, but Cloud had miscalculated how hard to brake, and he realized, even as his boot touched the asphalt to serve as a pivot point for his spin, that he had lost control. It pitched over its side, flinging them both onto the ground before its momentum spun it away, flinging sparks and screeching as its metal frame distorted. Cloud fell heavily, hitting his shoulder and cracking the side of his helmet on the hard surface of the tarmac. He skidded to a stop in a heap, breathing heavily with exertion. Not a few feet away, Roche was crumpled, but already he was moving, pushing himself to his knees and struggling to his feet. But they hadn’t actually fallen at speed from the bikes, in reality, they had just been riding clunky facsimiles rooted to the ground with a steel shaft that pivoted in all directions. They must have just been dumped on the floor of the simulator, and only the movement of the environment projected in his headset made it feel like he had rolled. In the simulator, he probably hadn’t moved at all. And there was the finish line, not one hundred meters ahead of him. Kunsel hadn’t said anything about having to cross the finish line on their bikes. 

Cloud pushed himself up and scrambled forward, following after Roche, who had gotten a head start. Cloud stumbled into a run, pumping his legs, his breath still ragged from the adrenaline of the race, victory now within his grasp. He closed the distance between him and his friend, one arm outstretched as he leapt across the beam of ghostly, holographic light that hovered in the air, reaching for something he wanted more fervently than anything he had ever desired before in his life.


	6. Glamazon

Cloud folded his arms, as he waited impatiently for their clearance to leave the base to be processed by the poor private who was completely confused by how the paperwork could have been submitted yesterday. She swore she’d checked this morning and found nothing in the electronic system. She apologized profusely to Kunsel for the wait as she put the request through as fast as she could. 

Cloud glared at Roche. “I still think you cheated,” he growled.

Roche raised his hands innocently. “It’s not my fault there’s a bug in the code.”

“At least he cheated with ingenuity,” Kunsel remarked, sounding impressed. “I don’t think there’s ever been a recruit who’s actually jumped from one bike to the other in the vehicle simulator.”

“Yeah, and instead of registering that as a wipeout, the programming let him land on my bike. I was six meters away in the simulation at the time!” Cloud snapped. “It should have just booted you out!”

“But it didn’t,” Roche grinned. “And I crossed the finish line first.”

“By a hair.”

Roche smirked, running a hand through said hair, meticulously sculpted. “Whatever counts, counts. And hey, Lieutenant Kunsel’s still signing you—ouch!”

Kunsel gave Roche a pat on the back so hard he bit his tongue. The private still processing their paperwork looked up from her screen, but knew better than to say anything to a lieutenant, especially a SOLDIER. Cloud was certain that Kunsel had faked the timing on paperwork to make it look like it had been turned in the day before instead of just a couple of hours ago, but he had no idea how Kunsel had managed it.

Seeing Roche grimace in pain made Cloud feel less annoyed at his friend. Kunsel hadn’t said he wouldn’t sign the loser out of the base as well, though Cloud hoped Kunsel had done it because Roche had exploited a glitch in the simulation programming, thus cheating his way to victory, and not because Kunsel pitied Cloud for being the loser.. 

Cloud was just starting to feel antsy about the time when the private finally finished and let them go. He couldn’t help a big smile on his face as he stepped outside of the training compound for the third time in a month. 

Kunsel clapped them both on the shoulder. “You two boys have fun tonight.”

“Wait, you’re not coming with me?”

“Sorry, but duty calls. I’m on special assignment tonight.”

“Oh,” said Cloud, crestfallen. 

“Good luck, though,” Kunsel said. “If you catch Argenta when she’s getting off her carriage, you’ll have seen her closer up than I have.”

“Really? You’ve never been down before the show?”

Kunsel shook his head. “You don’t get a lot of free time as a SOLDIER. It’s not exactly a nine-to-five.”

“Right.” 

“Anyways, I’m sure Roche will take good care of you.”

“What? Me?” exclaimed Roche. “I wasn’t—”

“—Going to leave Cloud to fend for himself in Wall Market? You’re a good guy, Hoffman,” Kunsel grinned. Roche spluttered in protest, but nothing coherent came out before Kunsel turned and gave them a casual wave. He headed off to where his motorcycle was parked. “Send me pics if you get a good one.”

They watched Kunsel speed off, and then looked at each other.

Roche sighed. “Guess I’m stuck with ya’ for the night.” They turned away from the base and started heading toward the train station. “I’m gonna get in so much trouble with him if you end up mugged or murdered in a back alley.”

“I can take care of myself if you wanna take off,” said Cloud, feigning nonchalance. In all honesty, he would feel safer in Wall Market with Roche around, but he wasn’t about to let on that he feared the undercity’s fearsome reputation. “I’m sure you’ve got places you wanna go party.”

“I was just gonna go home and have dinner, actually, ” Roche admitted. “'Cause it’s kind of sad hitting up a bar by yourself.”

Cloud had pegged Roche for the type who had a ton of friends who would want to hang out with him on a Friday night, but then again, Roche was near insufferable at even the best of times. “Maybe we could grab dinner and drinks in Wall Market if we don’t end up with tickets,” Cloud offered. It probably wasn’t as good as his family’s authentic paella, but still miles ahead of the slop they were fed on base. 

“You askin’ me out?” Roche raised an eyebrow. 

Cloud flushed bright red, all the way up to his ears. “Ew, no! No, that’s not—”

“It’s cool, I’m bisexual.”

Cloud fell silent as he processed Roche’s sudden confession. “What?! Really?" He stared at his friend, who had never seemed stereotypically bisexual to him, but then, Cloud wasn’t quite sure what a stereotypical bisexual was supposed to be. "Since when?”

“Since about thirty seconds ago when you asked me out on a date,” leered Roche, throwing an arm around Cloud’s shoulders and leaning in uncomfortably close. 

“I—” It was Cloud’s turn to splutter. 

Roche burst out laughing. “Just kidding! I was just kidding.”

“About the bisexual or the thirty seconds?” scowled Cloud, feeling like he had been the subject of Roche’s teasing too much already. 

Roche grinned. “The thirty seconds, obviously. I’ve known I was bi since...twelve, thirteen, I think? Genen came out around then too.”

Cloud’s eyes widened. Wow, that seemed awfully early to him. When he was thirteen he still had Sephiroth posters adorning his bedroom and a kid crush on Tifa Lockhart. Sexual attraction hadn’t even crossed his mind. In fact, Cloud had never given his preferences much serious thought at all. He'd liked Tifa because everybody had liked Tifa, and he found her pretty, and they'd gotten along. 

“When did _you_ figure it out?” Roche asked.

“Figure what out?”

“That you’re bi.”

“I’m not…” Cloud trailed off as Roche stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, and shot him a condescending look. “I’m really not...wait, am I?”

“You can tell me, man. I just told you.”

“Why do you think I'm bi?”

Roche blinked. “You have such hots for that drag queen, I guessed you were at least kinda bi?”

Cloud stilled. He wasn’t attracted to Argenta Rhodea, was he? In that way? She was just so pretty and embodied such confidence, and that was what had transfixed him the first time he’d seen her. Cloud turned even redder as he slowly sifted through the evidence in his own memories, how breathtaking he’d found her at first, how she occupied his every spare waking moment since, and had started appearing to him when he whacked off in the showers both morning and evening. Lately, he’d found himself daydreaming about the shape of her waist and the round curve of her hips, her long lashes, her red lips, and what they would feel like against his. And the fact that she was really a man made her somehow even more fascinating. Cloud realized he was starting to get turned on just thinking about her on the street, with Roche standing there and everything. That was normal, right? It didn’t mean anything, did it?

Roche continued to eye him, unconvinced. 

“Oh gods, I think I’m bisexual,” Cloud exhaled, poleaxed by his own revelation. 

Roche buried his face in his hands and sighed. “Yeah, we’re definitely going to need drinks tonight.”

* * *

It was just after sundown when Cloud and Roche arrived at the Honeybee Inn. The nightlife in Wall Market had yet to pick up so early in the evening, but there was already a small crowd of twenty or so people gathered in the square. They chatted in small groups—Argenta fans who had brought their friends or partners in hope of seeing her and scoring tickets. Cloud was too timid to approach them, since he was still too new to the mailing list to know any of them.

“Huh, guess it’s not just you,” said Roche wryly, a remark which earned him an elbow in the ribs. 

“Very funny.”

“So, what are we waiting here for? Does she do a meet and greet before she goes on, or are you just interested in the meat?”

Cloud made a noise of disgust at the crudeness of Roche’s joke and dug the sharpest point of his elbow into his friend’s ribs, hitting the exact same spot as before. Roche grunted. 

“A chocobo carriage drops her off, so if you don’t have tickets, this is the only way to see her if you’re not seeing her.”

“A chocobo carriage?” Roche asked. “What, like she’s royalty or something?”

“She’s a drag _queen_ , Roche.”

Roche snorted. “Yeah, not like us ordinary folk, that’s for sure.”

“You’re one to talk, Mister Pompadour.”

Roche sniffed. “Hey, don’t insult the hair.” He ran his hands along its contours, to check that it was still holding its shape. “It’s the only other thing besides bikes that I spend any time on.”

“Mmhm,” said Cloud skeptically. “I don’t think that time’s doing much for you.”

Roche narrowed his eyes. “Is that a read?”

“I’m surprised you know what reading is.”

“Oh, I know what reading is, but I’m surprised that a backwater town like Nibelheim would have taught its kids anything so fundamental.”

Roche paused, letting that one sink in, and then he and Cloud both dissolved into laughter so hard they bent double. 

“That was awful!” Cloud howled, when he regained his breath. He wiped tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “You suck so bad at this!”

“Yeah, well, luckily I have other things going for me.”

“Like what?” asked Cloud, trying to hold back the occasional giggle still threatening to bubble up.

Roche put his arm around Cloud and murmured in his ear, “I’m a good ride.”

Cloud gave his friend a shove and Roche detached himself with a chortle. “Ew, you’re the worst.”

“And you’re obsessed with a drag queen.”

Cloud shrugged. Guilty as charged, he supposed, and he wasn’t even ashamed of it. He was in good company with everyone else waiting out here too. He’d spent most of the train ride into the slums thinking about Roche being bisexual, about himself being maybe a little bit bisexual too. And when he’d looked at Argenta’s assembled fans—girls with their girlfriends, boys with their boyfriends, and a few boys in amateur drag themselves—being bi was hardly the strangest thing. 

“You can join us if you want, I’m sure Kunsel can send you an invite to the mailing list too.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to bikes. More _bang_ for your buck.” 

“Ugh,” Cloud groaned. He rolled his eyes, but was grateful nonetheless for Roche’s company. Wall Market was nothing like the peaceful village where he’d grown up, and everything like the big, scary city he’d heard tales about. There were no PSD patrols out here in the city’s pleasure and crime capital, the residents of Wall Market had to look out for themselves. It was relatively safe in the commercial centers of the town, but even then, he’d seen a few mean-looking folks stalking the streets. 

Cloud was in the midst of wondering how Argenta Rhodea took care of herself in the slums—did she have friends who looked out for her the same way that Roche was kind enough to look out for him—when a chocobo carriage pulled into view. Argenta’s fans pressed close as soon as it rolled to a stop in the square. Cloud dragged Roche along into the throng, leaning on his friend’s shoulder for balance as he stood on his tiptoes, straining to see over the heads in front of him. 

The doors of the coach opened and the collective breath in the crowd’s lungs froze as Argenta Rhodea emerged. She did not look as Cloud had seen her two weeks ago, in her platinum blonde curls with her white dress, nor in any photos that had ever been posted to her forums. She stood before them, her skin painted so pale it was tinged blue, fading into a brilliant azure in her fingertips. Her skin twinkled in the streetlamps, faint blue veins tracing their way from up her arms and her thighs, altogether lending her the impression of being frozen and dusted with snow. She was clad in much less than she usually wore—flowing, gauzy silks draped over a powder-blue bustier and a bikini cut so high in the leg that the shape of it accentuated the lines of her hips pleasingly. The bracelets and bangles adorning her wrists tinkled when she alighted, the subtle sound of the clinking of ice whenever she moved. She was Argenta Rhodea, but also the embodiment of the mythical deity Shiva, the goddess of ice given mortal form. Even though the makeup that covered her head to toe, Cloud could see the contours of muscles in her arms and the tightly packed sinew of her abdomen—unyielding strength hidden just beneath her frosty elegance.

One heel and then another, sparkling with rhinestones, clacked against the cobblestones, the audience still so hushed in awe that her footsteps echoed across the entire square. She smiled as her gaze swept the crowd of her gathered fans, her eyes a wintry, piercing grey, like the sky during a blizzard on Mount Nibel. Everyone held their silence, as sure as if it had been a spell that Argenta had cast with materia. She ran her fingers through her hair, silver at the roots and fading gradually into blue at the tips. Her high ponytail cascaded down her back like icicles hanging from the rafters, and the crowd let out the breath they’d been holding in appreciation of her beauty. 

She ascended the few steps to the Honeybee’s entrance, still holding the attention of everyone who had gathered in the square, even those who had just been passing by. Before she disappeared behind the red curtains, she turned, and blew a kiss over her shoulder to her fans, long fingers with fine dark nails gently touching her lips. Her lipstick was a muted bluish gray, but Cloud thought he saw a subtle pink shading, marking the only place that might be warm in the entirety of her cold, icy body. And then she was gone, and nobody had yet breathed a word.

The silence broke gradually, an encroaching of the rest of the noise of Wall Market. The guests at the strip club opposite the Honeybee wondered who the gorgeous woman had been, while a group of fanboys broke into excited squealing. A Honeyboy emerged from inside the entrance, and announced he was taking names and phone numbers for the expulsion ticket lottery. 

“You can close your jaw now,” Roche said, giving Cloud a nudge.

Cloud shut his mouth, which had been hanging open since Argenta Rhodea had appeared.

“You gonna sign yourself up?”

Cloud blinked. “Oh! Um, yeah, of course!” He scrambled to join the queue of her fans. Everybody chattered all at once—had somebody snapped a photo, was that supposed to be Shiva, gods, she was so gorgeous. Cloud thought that the sniffling girl standing in front of him must be pretty devoted to venture out all night with a bad head cold, until she turned around and Cloud realized that she was actually crying. 

He waited his turn to give his number to the Honeyboy who recited the rules in a polite, but bored tone. If called, he had five minutes to call back and claim his tickets and fifteen minutes to pick them up in person, otherwise they were forfeit and would go to the next person drawn by the lottery. The tickets didn’t entitle him to any services at the Honeybee Inn, just entrance and seats for the show, and the Honeybee Inn also reserved the right to expel the expulsion ticket holders if they did not adhere to the strict code of conduct. Cloud declared that he understood the rules, and then the Honeyboy waved him aside and beckoned to the next person in line.

“Now what?” Roche asked. 

“Dinner, drinks, and praying?” Cloud suggested. “Is there anywhere to get food here we can even afford?”

“Oh yeah,” Roche snorted. “Not everybody in Wall Market has pockets full enough for the Honeybee Inn. In fact, most people don’t. Plenty of cheap places. Hey, there’s a good Wutaian joint Genen told me about, wanna go?”

Cloud let himself be led away, up the stairs and to the main market square, but he couldn’t help turning back for one last, longing look at where Argenta Rhodea had been. Her coach was long gone, and Cloud hadn’t even gotten a picture of her. Lieutenant Kunsel had specifically told him to, too. Cloud groaned inwardly with despair.

“You didn’t snap a pic, did you?” Roche asked, as if he’d read Cloud’s mind. 

Cloud shook his head.

“You spent all your time ogling her and you forgot.”

“I did not!”

“If you weren’t ogling, you would have snapped a pic.”

Cloud opened his mouth to protest, but realized that he had been staring at her, and it had not occurred to him to do anything else. 

“Don’t worry,” Roche chuckled. “I gotcha covered.” He shoved his phone, one of the newfangled ones with the big touchscreen, in Cloud’s face. It was Argenta Rhodea, the moment she had set foot off of her carriage, in all of her icy splendor, her gaze fixed in the middle distance off the frame. She looked strangely contemplative, and downright exquisite. 

Cloud snatched the phone out of his friend’s hands, so he could get a better look. “That is such a good shot! Roche, you’re the best.”

Roche cackled. “I can’t hear you.”

“You are the best!” Cloud shouted, and he had to jump so he could fling his arms around Roche’s shoulders and give him a hug. “Dinner’s on me tonight!”

“See, I knew you were asking me out.” 

“Roche!”

“Come on, let’s grab some Wutai soup dumplings. Bet they don’t serve that in Nibelheim.”

Cloud shook his head, and followed his friend’s lead.

* * *

“Lovely that you could make it, my dear.”

Argenta leaned in for the kiss, one on each cheek, in the air just above her skin, so as not to disturb her makeup. “Of course.” 

“Now, let me get a good look at you.”

Argenta stood still, one hand raised to toss her hair behind her back. A mirror spanned the entire width of the wall opposite her, and she couldn’t help but to stare at her own reflection, transfixed by even her own image. Shiva gazed back at her, perfectly glacial, a vision of aloof grace, to be worshipped, but never touched, never approached. 

Andrea Rhodea circled her, his eyes taking in every detail, from the blue shading she painted her skin, to the angle of arch she had drawn her brows. Her drag mother was most pleased when his daughters tried daring new things. That kind of push was exactly what Argenta needed, particularly now when there was so turmoil in her ordinary life, her days spent navigating through bureaucratic quagmires and political minefields. At least here, doing this, she was doing something fun. She had purpose and clarity, instead of a tangle of questions to which she might never find the answers. 

“Marvelous,” Andrea Rhodea concluded, clasping his hands together in triumph. “This is more skin than you’ve ever exposed on stage, though. How do you feel?”

“Powerful,” Argenta replied. Untouched and untouchable by the troubles of the world around her, like all the cold and loneliness in the world could never penetrate the layers of ice around her, like she could turn them into strength that was hers alone to wield as she willed. 

“Good,” Andrea nodded. “The audience tonight won’t know what hit them.”

Argenta smiled. There was no thrill like the thrill of captivating an entire theatre. She lived in the moments when gasps broke silence, men stared at her open-mouthed in awe, when audiences rose to their feet en masse for applause. Most of the Honeybee’s patrons were wealthy men and women from the plate—influential government officials, famous actresses and television producers, and even Shinra executives. Argenta knew that Palmer was one of the establishment’s regulars, and she liked to tease him in particular whenever she walked amongst the audience, because the danger that he might recognize her was its own heady reward. He hadn’t yet, likely because he was always so drunk he could hardly see straight by the time the shows started, and because her makeup was always flawless. She softened the sharp angles of her features, changed the shape of her lips and the color of her eyes, and preferred shoulder-length blonde wigs to her own hair. Argenta Rhodea had been performing with the Honeybee Inn for years, and nobody had recognized her, not even the one time she had approached Rufus Shinra’s table and shaken her assets for him. 

“Would you like a drink before the show begins?”

“The usual,” Argenta replied. Andrea went to the door of his dressing room and beckoned to a Honeygirl nearby. 

Before settling herself on the red leather divan, Argenta untucked first, so that she could sit without terrible discomfort. It was a couple of hours until the show started, and while she was capable of tucking for an entire night, if given the option, she would rather not. She perched carefully, mindful of the makeup covering her body. She played with her hair absently, a gesture she never allowed herself to do during the day, and was still studying her own reflection, considering where she might touch up her face, when Andrea returned with a gin and tonic. 

“That’s not a wig, is it?” Andrea asked, bending down to study her ponytail more closely. 

“There’s a bit of dye in it, for the blue.”

“You should be more careful,” Andrea warned.

“It’ll wash out with a good shampooing. I tested it,” Argenta replied. She had spent several evenings perfecting her makeup for this look, of course she tested the hair dye, and made sure it wouldn’t leave a trace the following morning.

Andrea held her gaze, conveying his concern. “How do you feel?” he asked again.

“Less sweaty with my own hair out.” Argenta didn’t risk using her own hair in her drag often, but the freedom she felt, not having to braid it, pin it, and cap it under a wig, was worth the occasional venture. Maybe she could do it a little more, she mused silently.

Andrea went to sit at his dressing table, turning his chair so he could face his daughter and pin her with his gaze. Here, there were only the two of them. Andrea Rhodea had never shared a dressing room with anyone, not even his own brother, until Argenta Rhodea had needed him to help her protect her identity. His voice, ordinarily booming and commanding, was quiet.

“I meant, how are you doing?”

“Fine.” The answer came out more forcefully than Argenta meant it to. 

Andrea arched an eyebrow.

“I’m fine.” Argenta repeated. “Look, I don’t want to think about all the other things that aren’t fine when I’m here. So, I’m fine. I’m managing.” She drained most of her cocktail in one go. 

“If you need me,” Andrea said, slowly and firmly, “I will always be here for you.”

Argenta smiled faintly. But Andrea was here for her right now, giving her a place to perform, a place to be Argenta. He’d even found a way to sneak her from the plate into the slums under the radar. He had so done much for her already, since that night when he’d sat Sephiroth—seventeen years old and already in command of an army—in front of a mirror, and painted him a vision of who he could become if he explored the possibility that there was another facet of himself, stronger and more resilient than the one he already knew about. 

“Thank you,” she said simply, deciding not to ask yet another thing of her drag mother. What she had now would have to be enough.

* * *

Cloud’s vision swam, the edges of it darkening as he struggled with every step forward. 

“Tell me when you need to stop.”

Cloud stopped, listing to the side as he took several seconds to process the words floating past his consciousness. He couldn’t find the words to say he needed a break already, so he just sank to the ground, hoping that would convey enough.

“Okay, okay, we’ll stop here, but you need to move a bit. You’re in the way.”

Cloud clung tightly to Roche as his friend maneuvered him...somewhere. Edge of the street, probably, away from pedestrian foot traffic. His heart was hammering in his head, and he was afraid that if he tried to speak, or even breathed the wrong way, he might upend the contents of his stomach instead. It was best to keep quiet and focus on breathing. 

He shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, but the alcohol had snuck up on him. Who knew that Drunkard’s double vodka shots were ‘double’, because they were doubly strong? He’d been drinking with Roche, matching him shot for shot, and hadn’t wanted to stop. They’d been chatting, so Cloud had lost count of how many he’d had. It wasn’t until they got up to catch the train back to base that Cloud had realized he couldn’t stand. He thought he’d blacked out and fallen over, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a large, empty hole in his memory.

Cloud sat gratefully when Roche leaned him against something cool, concrete maybe. He sagged into it for support, it was the only thing holding him upright. 

“I’m gonna go get some water.”

Weakly, Cloud shook his head. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this drunk. He’d feel a lot better after throwing up. He wasn’t ready to vomit yet, but after a few minutes of sitting around, maybe he would be. 

“Stay,” he managed between labored breaths. He didn’t want Roche to leave him—not when his vision was starting to cut in and out of blackness, and it was well into the night. He had no idea where he was, except somewhere in Wall Market. What if something happened and Roche never came back?

“Okay.”

Cloud closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the town bustling around him, catching snatches of conversation from passersby. It washed over him like water—a pair of lovers arguing over money, a barker trying to get customers for a nearby club, speculation over who would be appearing in the Corneo Coliseum tonight. Cloud started to sweat and shiver, and slipped onto the ground, curled in a fetal position for comfort. Roche tried to push him back up again, but he groaned in protest. Sitting up was too much effort, so finally Roche let him lie down, making sure he was on his side and his head supported. 

“Don’t you dare drown in your own puke,” Roche warned. 

“...won’t,” Cloud mumbled, a few seconds later. He just needed to hurl, and then he’d be okay. Probably. He wanted to tell Roche this, but felt so terrible after saying just one word that he couldn’t bear to speak more.

Cloud floated in and out of consciousness, miserable down to his very bones, and swearing off drinking for the rest of his life. Or maybe it had been those dumplings that had done him in. Just in case, he swore off of those too. Cloud reached out with a hand, after what he felt was every few minutes, to check that his friend was still there. 

“You feelin’ better yet?”

Cloud moved his head from side to side carefully. 

“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

Cloud shook his head again. 

“You sure?”

Cloud nodded. 

“Normally, I wouldn’t trust a drunk person, but it’s a good sign you’re conscious enough to respond.”

“Few more minutes.”

“‘Kay.”

More conversation washed over him, more passersby. Eventually, the chatter turned toward a show—how amazing it had been for a goddess to descend amongst men, the Honeybee had outdone itself again—and Cloud knew that the show had ended. The chances of seeing Argenta Rhodea had been slim anyway, and the night hadn’t been a complete wash. He’d had fun hanging out with Roche, just the two of them, and none of his gearhead friends. Cloud felt his guts begin to twist, and he didn’t know if it was the disappointment from missing Argenta’s show catching up to him all of a sudden—how radiant must she have been?—or his stomach finally ready to boot the drinks and food he’d consumed. 

“Roche!” Cloud pushed himself to his hands and knees, a burst of strength coming from his body convulsing. “I gotta—” He leaned forward and retched noisily into the gutter. 

“Shit! Give a guy some warning!” Roche scrambled out of the way, but stayed just on the edges of the splash zone, as Cloud gagged and quaked in wave after wave, and it felt like not only dinner was coming up, but every meal that Cloud had ever eaten in his life. After no more solids came up, his stomach continued to heave a few more times just for good measure before it finally settled. 

“Eugh,” Cloud groaned, when he took a couple of breaths and felt relatively certain that he didn’t have anything more to throw up. He still felt woozy, but the worst of it was probably over. The sheer misery of his existence had dialed down from an eleven to a six, on a scale of ten. He was still sweaty and shaky, but hey, he wasn’t going to need his stomach pumped, so that was a plus. 

“You good?” Roche squatted back down and edged closer, avoiding getting his boots in the puddle of sick Cloud just made. 

“Five more minutes,” Cloud promised, crawling toward the edges of the street, where it stank less. He huddled on the ground, propping his arms on his knees and letting his head loll forward to wait out the shivers. Once they passed, they could get a move back on. 

“You really should’ve told me you had too many drinks,” Roche said gently, resting a hand on Cloud’s back. 

“Sorry, it just kind of hit me like a sledgehammer.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s just get you back in one piece. At least we’ve only got classroom shit tomorrow morning, and not drills.”

Cloud moaned. He didn’t even want to imagine attempting the obstacle course with a hangover. “Thanks, dude.” It came out sarcastic, even though he genuinely wanted to thank Roche for not ditching him, but he wasn’t drunk enough anymore to be getting all sappy on his friend. 

Cloud clambered to his feet when he felt ready to move. Roche gave him a hand when he was still a little unsteady on his feet, and he needed Roche to lean on to make it to the train station, but at least he was supporting most of his own weight.

The street had thinned considerably since earlier that night. Wall Market was usually up until sunrise, but a few of the shop-lined streets on the outskirts had closed or were in the stages of closing down, and there was the odd avenue that felt eerily abandoned the further out they walked, leaving behind the lively central square where the partying would continue until the sun rose.

Suddenly, Roche pulled him closer, and Cloud felt himself flush involuntarily at the way his friend put a hand on his waist and tugged it sharply. Cloud couldn’t help the shudder of his spine as Roche’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. 

“Don’t panic, but we’re being followed.”

Cloud froze. 

“I said, don’t panic,” Roche growled. “I think these guys were staking us out when you were recovering in the street. Can you make a run for it?”

“Where do I run to?” Cloud asked quietly. 

“The right turn up ahead takes us straight to the station. As long as we get there, we’re good.”

“I don’t know if I can run right now.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to.”

Cloud felt sick at the thought. This was the worst time to get ambushed in Wall Market, though technically there was never a good time for a mugging. And he and Roche didn’t even have anything to fight with, save their fists.

They took a few more steps, hurrying along as fast as they dared, hoping it was just a mistake and their pursuers were just happening to travel in the same direction. Before they could make a break for it, two more men stepped out of the shadows of a side alleyway, blocking their path. 

Cloud glanced behind him, the two men following had caught up. They were surrounded. 

“Drop all your valuables,” one of the men in front said, a mean looking guy with a green mohawk. He stood beside another, who had a nailbat slung across his shoulders. 

“Sorry, bro, but we don’t have any valuables,” Roche replied. “We just spent all our money drinking.” It was true, more or less. There was barely twenty gil between them, and most of that was for the train fare. 

“Bullshit,” Mohawk sneered. “You’re Platers, you gotta have something. Headsets, phones, whatever. Drop ‘em.”

Neither Cloud nor Roche made a move. The first rule of getting held up in the slums was to give them what they wanted, but Cloud was not about to let go of his phone. It was a shitty old model, but he didn’t have enough money saved up for another. Without it, he’d have no way to access Argenta’s forum or her mailing list. He was not going to give that up without a fight. And neither was he going to let Roche give up his phone—he had a picture of Argenta Rhodea on it that he hadn’t sent to Cloud yet. A sober Cloud would have made a different decision about standing his ground, but drunk Cloud was still working through the last bit of the alcohol. 

“Stall ‘em,” Roche murmured. “I think I hear somebody coming.”

“Better not be backup,” Cloud replied, but he tried to reason with Mohawk and Nailbat anyway. “Honestly, we don’t have anything,” Cloud attempted. “You’re better off finding somebody else.”

“That’s what they all say,” Nailbat snorted. “Last chance, boys. We’re trying to be reasonable here. You gonna give us what we want or are you gonna get the beating of a lifetime?”

Cloud turned so that he was back-to-back with Roche. 

“You ever get into a fight before?” Roche asked, putting his fists up. 

“Just with kids my age.”

“You sober enough to show them what we got?”

“I’m gonna have to,” said Cloud, feeling for the first time since Roche had carried him out of Drunkard’s that his mind was clear. He was going to show these hooligans what two Public Security Division recruits could do. 

The fight had gone much better in Cloud’s imagination than it went in real life. He managed to jump out of the way of Nailbat’s first swing, and come back in for a punch, but it was blocked. Before Cloud could pull back, someone kicked him in the stomach, which dropped him instantly. He curled up in pain, thankful that at least there wasn’t anything left to come up. 

“Get ‘im.” 

Hands seized his shirt collar, hauling him into the air. He struggled and kicked, his fist finding contact with a man’s eye and the heel of his boot clocking the same man between the legs. Cloud was dumped back onto his feet as the man fell over, writhing and moaning. Cloud stumbled forward, and would have been caught by a third mugger, a guy with a lazy eye, if Roche hadn’t kicked him in the knee and staggered him backward in the knick of time. 

“That was a low blow little fella,” Mohawk stood over his fallen comrade. He glared at Cloud. “Now it’s personal.”

“Can’t wait to teach that brat a lesson,” Nailbat said. “Let’s get the big one first, and then we’ll have the little shrimp all to ourselves.”

Roche threw Cloud a dirty look. “You just had to go and kick a guy in the nads.”

“Maybe if he wasn’t trying to mug me, I wouldn’t have kicked him!” Cloud protested. But he took up his place next to Roche again.

One down, three to go, but one of them was Nailbat. They hadn’t trained for a nailbat in hand-to-hand combat, which Cloud realized now had been a grievous oversight by whoever had set the training curriculum. Maybe they should run, as Roche had originally planned, now that it was just three against two. 

Nailbat came at them swinging, and Cloud kept his eye on it, scrambling out of range as fast he could. He felt it sail through the air where his head had been a moment earlier. The man’s momentum continued to carry him, so Cloud used that split-second to change direction, springing toward freedom. Roche followed him, and they sprinted for dear life, pelting down the empty street. Even though his mind was clear enough, Cloud was still weak from all the vomiting and being kicked in the gut. His ribs ached something fierce, and his head was still pounding, but these all felt like secondary concerns in comparison to his not wanting to get his face smashed in by a freaking nailbat. Despite this, Cloud found himself flagging, and the muggers, who’d decided to give chase, were almost upon him. 

“Come on!” Roche reached behind him and grabbed Cloud’s wrist, tugging him so hard he almost lost his footing. They raced down the street, spotting the station’s bright lights just a couple hundred meters up ahead.

From a cross street, a chocobo carriage came darting out of the darkness. “Look out!” Cloud cried. Cloud and Roche tried to stop, but went crashing into the side of it as the coachman pulled hard on the reins of the bird. They only narrowly missed careening into the wheels, and were knocked off their feet as they hit the broad side of it, landing heavily in the dirt road.

“Help!” was all the time Cloud had to say before they were seized by their assailants.

Cloud’s arms were pinned behind his back and his face shoved into the dirt. “Well, I guess it’s our lucky day,” Mohawk sneered. He pulled something from his belt, and Cloud heard the metallic ping of a switchblade. Cool, sharp metal pressed itself against the side of his throat. “You should’ve just given us what we wanted.”

“No fucking way,” Cloud hissed. He heard Roche struggling beside him, and he resisted Mohawk too, but the man was stronger, larger, and also sitting on him. The blade pressed harder against his neck, and Cloud felt it begin to cut into his skin. 

“One more fucking move, and I’ll stick you like a—”

Cloud squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for pain that never came. Mohawk’s weight lifted off of him, like something had knocked him flying. He opened his eyes to find Mohawk a few feet away, a translucent crystal of ice forming around him, crackling as it expanded, pulling all the moisture and heat from the air. It engulfed the man in the space of a single second, Mohawk’s scream frozen in his throat before he’d even known what had hit him. 

“Holy shit,” Roche murmured. Lazy-Eye, who had pinned him down, scrambled off and backed away from the carriage and Cloud and Roche, eyeing the entire scene in front of him warily. 

Then the iceberg shattered, throwing Mohawk into the air again as his compatriots watched, dumbfounded. The man landed in the dust in a heap several feet away, and didn’t move. 

“You lot aren’t from around these here parts,” The coachman observed, sitting calmly on his perch. 

Lazy-Eye shook his head, but Nailbat, perhaps imbued with undue confidence due to his armament, shot a defiant look back. 

“What’s it to you?”

“It’s real stupid to be mugging folks on the Don’s turf. Especially Platers, who bring him good business.”

“We just want our cut,” Nailbat sneered, hefting his weapon and ignoring Lazy-Eye, who had the sense to be backing away with his hands up. 

“Go back to the sector you came from,” the chocobo coachman warned. “Before more of you get hurt like him.” He nodded over to Mohawk, still slumped on the ground.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Nailbat sneered. He eyed the chocobo—those things could kick a man hard enough to break their spines, but it was attached to a carriage. What could it do?

“I’m not the one you should be afraid of,” the coachman replied. “She is.” He cocked his head toward his carriage.

Cloud followed his gaze, turning his head slowly from Nailbat to where Argenta Rhodea was standing. She was still made up as Shiva, wearing nothing more than when Cloud had seen her earlier that evening. Her silver-blue tresses wafted gently in the chilly spring night breeze, as if the temperature couldn’t touch her. 

Nailbat’s eyes widened. “What the hell?” And then he bared his teeth, and charged. 

Cloud crawled to his feet to intercept him, to stop him from getting to Argenta, but Nailbat was already frozen in midair. Ice crackled again, sharp blades of it crystallizing in elegant curves, deadly edges and even deadlier, bitter cold. Cloud could feel the boundaries of the magic’s influence, the swirl of shifting, rippling energies just a few inches from his face. He would have been frozen in an instant if he moved closer. 

When the glacier shattered, it threw Nailbat back even further than Mohawk, and he hit the ground so hard that Cloud thought he could hear several bones snapping. Lazy-Eye was already long gone, tripping over Mohawk’s body in his haste to get away. 

Cloud whipped around and met the chilly gaze of Argenta Rhodea, realizing that it was she who had cast the magic. Just one simple spell would have drained an ordinary person to the point of exhaustion, but she had cast two in rapid succession, and the second had been stronger than the first. She must have been performing all night, and even then had cast them as if the power she had drawn was nothing. 

She regarded him back, aloof and unsmiling, even though she had just saved their lives. Framed in the doorway of the carriage, she looked regal and impossibly strong. She had faced down three men, unafraid, and had defeated them without hardly lifting a finger.

Her gaze shifted to Roche, who got to his feet and broke the frosty silence. 

“Thank you,” he said, giving her a grateful nod.

Cloud realized then that he’d been staring at Argenta the entire time, and hadn’t said a single thing. Had she been waiting for him to say something?

“Thank—”

“Go.”

Cloud blinked.

“Before more of them come.” 

It was a voice that was accustomed to commanding men, a rich baritone so incongruous with Argenta’s appearance that it took Cloud a few more seconds to register that it was she, and not somebody else, who had just spoken to them. To him. That was her real voice, as deep and resonant as faraway thunder heralding the arrival of a spring storm. 

She disappeared back into the chocobo carriage, and the coachman tipped his hat at them. It rolled away, and Cloud stared after it, dumbfounded. 

“C’mon, let’s go,” Roche said, giving Cloud a nudge. “We need to move.”

Reluctantly, Cloud tore his gaze away from the diminishing chocobo carriage. He had just met Argenta Rhodea. She had spoken to him, and she had saved his life. He hadn’t even thanked her. He hadn’t said anything, and she had said six words, in her own voice. Cloud played them over and over again, burning it into his memory, etching it into his synapses, feeling as if he could fall forever into the silky, sable depths of that timbre. 

He let Roche drag him all the way to the station, and on the very last train back up to the plate, the only thing that Cloud could think of was Argenta Rhodea.


	7. Military Realness

Argenta Rhodea had saved his life. 

Cloud stretched out in his bunk and stared at the ceiling, so excited he was bursting from the night’s emotions. So much had happened in the space of a few hours, including being attacked in the slums. Then Argenta had come from nowhere to save them, and she had done it all without leaving her chocobo carriage. With just a simple gesture of her arm, she’d tossed a spreading glacier of ice at his opponents as easily as a child could toss a ball. 

Cloud wanted the earth to open up and drop him in a deep crevasse when he thought about not even thanking her for the rescue. He’d been too busy staring in disbelief, and maybe unconsciously ogling her, to say anything. At least Roche had covered for him, but Cloud still felt his gut twist with shame whenever he thought about his silence. Instead, she had spoken to him. Argenta was not known to speak to her fans at all. She hardly said a single word, even on the rare occasions she signed autographs. Those few fanclub members who had heard her, reported that her voice was deep and masculine, and speculated that she did not like to talk so as to maintain the illusion of her femininity. She had spoken all of six words to Cloud, which was more than she had ever said to any other fan. 

He played her words over and over again in his head—the commanding tone and the velvety timber that he wanted to wrap himself in. Strangely, her baritone suited her. The juxtaposition between her appearance and the strength behind that voice and that magic was mesmerizing, and Cloud was unable to imagine her voice in a higher, more feminine register. 

Unable to calm down enough to sleep, adrenaline still coursing through his system, Cloud stayed awake on his phone, waiting for someone’s review of the night’s performance that never came. He entertained himself by reading through speculation of Argenta’s identity, including the very devoted, very vocal contingent who were convinced she was the drag persona of Rufus Shinra. Entire screeds were written about how perfectly the evidence fit with their theory. Rufus Shinra would be approximately Argenta Rhodea’s height with those heels on, and the shape of their features was similar, even though it was difficult to tell with the way she painted her face. It explained why she was so secretive—she was the son of the richest and most powerful man on the planet—and why she only performed sporadically and short notice, because Rufus Shinra surely worked late nights as a prominent executive of the Shinra Electric Power Company’s board. It all made sense, the essays insisted, though somehow having met Argenta Rhodea now, Cloud felt that the Rufus Shinra theory couldn’t be right. 

When the sun came up and the morning reveille sounded, Cloud bounced out of his bunk as if he’d gotten a full night’s rest. He dashed straight for the showers to avoid the rush, and when he was freshly washed, he went over to Roche’s bunk to check up on his friend. Roche was sprawled on his stomach, snoring and drooling into his pillow. Cloud felt bad for having dragged his friend out late, and making Roche take care of him when he’d been too drunk to stand, so Cloud let his friend catch a few more winks, and only roused him when it was clear that he was going to be late. 

Roche was still yawning while they stood in line for breakfast, his hair flat and wet, since he hadn’t had time to style it. 

“We need to talk about last night,” Cloud said.

“I would rather not dwell on getting our asses kicked,” Roche replied grumpily. “That was way too close for comfort.” He shuddered.

“I don’t want to talk about the mugging, I want to talk about how she saved us.”

“Huh?”

Cloud rose to his tiptoes and whispered in Roche’s ear. “Argenta Rhodea!” he hissed.

“Oh, right. Yeah, we’d be toast if it hadn’t been for her.”

“I know! But who do you think she is?” Cloud asked eagerly.

Roche shrugged. “I dunno.”

“You don’t have any thoughts?”

“I haven’t slept, I had a thirty second shower, and I haven’t had breakfast or coffee yet. I’ve also got a monster hangover, so surprised I’m speaking coherent sentences. No, I don’t have any thoughts about this,” Roche grumbled irritably.

“She can cast magic.”

“Lots of people can cast magic.”

“Sure, but it’s not a thing a lot of normal people know how to do.”

Roche shrugged. They reached the front of the breakfast queue and picked up their trays. “So, she probably doesn’t work as a barista or in an office.”

“You saw how easily she threw those spells out. She’s been trained.”

“Or she’s practiced,” Roche countered. They scooted along, the mess staff dumping limp hash browns and colorless scrambled eggs on their trays. “Materia isn’t exactly hard to come by. Giselle’s uncle owns one of the materia shops in Wall Market, so she’s been able to cast basic spells since she was a kid.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” said Cloud, trying not to sound too disappointed that this one fact about Argenta Rhodea might not increase his chances of finding her. 

“But hey, it narrows down the possibilities,” Roche said hurriedly. 

They picked up their trays. Cloud thought they were headed to their usual table, already staked out by Giselle and Tomas and a couple of the others, but Roche made a sharp diversion to the end of one of the long benches, which had a couple of chairs free, opposite from each other. Giselle waved wildly, a questioning look on her face, but then gave up when Roche made a shooing motion at her. 

"Wait, don't you wanna—"

Roche glanced over at his table of friends. "Or we can sit here, and you can talk." 

It was true that Cloud didn't get the chance to voice his own interests when hanging out with Roche's company of gearheads. He too, glanced over at Giselle, who shrugged. If Roche didn’t want to hang with them for breakfast, she wasn’t too bothered about it.

“What’s the dominant theory on your forum?” Roche continued when they took their seats.

“There’s a ton of theories, but nothing dominant,” Cloud replied. 

Roche raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Well, there is one really loud group of people who absolutely insist they’re right about theirs.” Cloud rolled his eyes. 

“That counts, I guess. And?”

"It's just a stupid theory,” Cloud grumbled. 

“But what is it?” Roche asked, his interest piqued by Cloud’s reticence.

Cloud held out for as long as he could, but Roche was insistent. “They think she’s Rufus Shinra,” Cloud said finally, when Roche threatened to drop a piece of scrambled egg into his coffee if he didn’t start talking.

Roche choked on the hash brown he’d been chewing, and got looks from their bench, as well as their usual table, wondering what the hell had happened. 

“Holy shit, do you think she actually is?” Roche asked when he managed to clear the bits of potato out of his trachea.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

Cloud poked at his eggs. He didn’t want to eat them, but he needed the protein. He tried to put off the inevitable by stabbing them with his fork. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Dunno, makes perfect sense to me. She’s secretive, she’s about the right height, she knows how to cast magic,” Roche counted the reasons on his fingers. “I’m convinced.”

“Ugh,” Cloud groaned. He hated the theory, because it looked plausible when examined in detail, but it still didn’t sit right with him. “Rufus Shinra doesn’t really seem the type to rescue a couple of randos getting their asses kicked in the middle of the slums.”

“Why, do you know him?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then you don’t know whether that’s a thing he’d do. Maybe he’s actually a really nice guy,” Roche suggested.

Cloud pursed his lips. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, who do you think she is, then?”

“I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to talk to you about!”

“Well, I think those Rufus Shinra people are right on the money.”

Cloud sighed. Having survived not dying in the undercity hadn’t made Roche any less insufferable than the usual. “Why would he be a drag queen, though?” 

“Why is anybody ever a drag queen?” 

Cloud shrugged. Because it was fun? Because they liked performing? Because they felt feminine sometimes? There were a lot of reasons, and he couldn’t find a way to articulate them any more clearly than asking them as questions. “How am I supposed to know?” Cloud finally said. “I’m not a drag queen.”

Cloud didn’t like the strange, evaluating expression that suddenly came over Roche’s face, but before he could ask his friend what he was thinking, they had to pick up their trays and start their day.

* * *

Sephiroth straightened his uniform and looked at himself in the mirror. Twin columns of brass buttons adorned the double-breasted SOLDIER ‘dress sables’, traveling from his shoulders, and down his chest in precise formation, all the way to the red sash around his waist. The black fabric of his frock coat was stiff and unyielding, encasing him in straight, strict military lines. He had to wear all his medals, various commendations and merits he had been awarded over the course of the Wutai War, and today the President was to award him yet another. The Medal of Valor had widely been touted in the news as the company’s highest honor, but in reality Sephiroth knew that the President had only just created it specially for this occasion. The ceremony was an excuse to publicly celebrate Shinra’s victory in the Wutai conflict, and remind the remaining pockets of resistance of the company’s military might. 

Sephiroth hated the SOLDIER dress uniform, from the red stripe traveling the length of his trousers, to the garish, gold-braided aiguillettes which hung from his right shoulder. It was a remnant of the military uniforms from ages past, before the rise of Shinra, when local dukes and petty warlords clashed for dominance. He felt trapped in these clothes, the high, rigid collar constricting his neck, closing him in entirely in colors simultaneously drab and gaudy, a sarcophagus of fine brushed wool and centuries of borrowed tradition. First Class SOLDIERs were allowed to make their own modifications to their service uniforms, hence his leather coat and white pauldrons, but even his privileges did not extend as far as the ceremonial dress code.

He couldn’t help but remember the first time he had donned the dress sables years ago for a dinner with the President after the success of their first major campaign against Wutai. Sephiroth had hated it back then as much as he did now, with an almost visceral rejection of its uncompromising dourness. Shinra had just added the red lampasse to the uniform—a reminder of the sacrifices made by Shinra’s loyal soldiers, so it was said—though Sephiroth had been certain that it served the double purpose of also reminding Wutai of the heavy casualties they would suffer should they continue to defy the company’s expansionist vision. 

Military Realness, Angeal had called it, attempting to lighten Sephiroth’s sullen mood. Genesis had been the only one who had actually liked the uniform, and admired how he’d looked in it—the way the cut of the coat straightened his back and his shoulders, the length lending him an air of authority. He’d even worn it with the cap on. Genesis had always looked good in red and black, but they’d both made a joke of it to put Sephiroth more at ease, marching down the corridors of the SOLDIER floor together, pretending it was a runway at a ball, lined with discerning judges scoring them. 

_Shantay, shantay, shantay._

Sephiroth had been in the military for so long he might as well have been born into it, and yet, the only way he could tolerate his dress sables was by thinking of it as drag. Neither Genesis nor Angeal were here to snigger beside him as they made their way to the parade cars, so Sephiroth had to repeat the mantra to himself as he joined Lazard Deusericus—in civilian morning dress—and the next two highest-ranking Firsts, Majors Lee-Rong Gongsun and Wolfgang Okope. They had been recalled from their assignments especially for this event, and tomorrow would be redeployed to continue their field missions. Both Gongsun and Okope seemed more at ease than he and Angeal had ever been in the face of such pomp and circumstance, and Sephiroth envied the pride they radiated as their vehicle slowly wound around the Sector 0 ring road. The citizens of Midgar were out in force—or at least the Platers were—crowded about the metal barricades, cheering and whooping, waving miniature Shinra flags and much to his horrified embarrassment, placards of his face from a years-old photoshoot he had been forced to sit for the PR department. Sephiroth averted his eyes, concealing his discomfort beneath the placid mask of the Silver General. 

“I’m sorry,” Lazard mouthed in sympathy. 

Sephiroth accepted the apology with a simple blink. It was not as if the Director of SOLDIER could defy Presidential orders. 

It was a cloudy, overcast day, and the air was strangely still for spring. It took all of Sephiroth’s restraint not to unbutton his collar, as they proceeded slowly through the city, marching ranks of SOLDIERs, PSD, and the latest of Shinra’s advanced, automated weapons following in their wake. It was the ultimate irony that here he was perspiring heavily, doing nothing but sitting down and keeping his face still, while he hardly broke a sweat fighting on a battlefront with a thousand men’s lives dependent on his every tactic and ability to personally break enemy front lines.

The parade eventually ended where it began, on the broad, expansive front courtyard of the Shinra Electric Power Company headquarters. There, a new memorial statue was unveiled and dedicated to the war, a bronze, artistic rendition of a mako reactor. It was a symbol of peace, prosperity, and scientific advancement, according to the President’s speech. Sitting quietly behind the Shinra podium along with the senior executives and all the news cameras trained in his direction, Sephiroth didn’t dare roll his eyes, though he was sorely tempted. 

In the old days, when he sat next to Angeal and Genesis, he used to communicate with them by tapping in code on their chairs, the military equivalent of passing notes to each other in a classroom. Gongsun and Okope were too proper to do that with, so Sephiroth endured the speech silently, only allowing himself inward exasperation as the President continued to extol the virtues of bringing progress to the world, and his gratitude for the multitude of sacrifices his forces had made in the pursuit of that ideal. 

Facing the dais, several rows back in the assembled audience, Sephiroth spotted where the invited SOLDIERs were seated, the collection of Seconds and Thirds who had marched in the procession. Zack Fair was among them, looking bored. His arms were folded across his chest as if he couldn’t wait for the bullshit fest to be over. Most of the other SOLDIERs were grateful for the morning off, and the honor of being invited to be a part of the procession and the subsequent celebration. But Zack looked so miserable, as if he might have preferred to stay in the building and fill out reports. Sephiroth himself would have preferred to read through a few days worth of paperwork to this. 

Sephiroth rose when the President called his name, his expression appropriately grateful as Shinra pinned the Medal of Valor to his left breast. They froze for the photo op, which was several long minutes of Sephiroth looking grave and proud while shaking the President’s hand. At least he wasn’t expected to smile. It was an eternity before the flashes stopped. Then Sephiroth took his place at the lectern, crammed full of microphones pointed in his face. 

The teleprompters before him displayed his speech, the one that the company had written for him. He had supplied a few of his own edits when Laszlo had passed him the draft weeks ago, but it had come back to him with hardly any of his suggestions incorporated. Sephiroth memorized it anyway, because trying to change it further would have been an exercise in futility. If Genesis had been here, Sephiroth would have been relieved to let him have the opportunity instead. His friend craved the spotlight, and would have gleefully indulged in the attention. Genesis would have given a grand and dramatic oration that would have stirred the hearts of both the public and the army alike. He would probably even have done something clever, like snuck in a quotation of _Loveless_ in the form of an acrostic, just to amuse himself. Sephiroth knew that he was much less inspiring of a public speaker than even the heavy-handed Angeal, who impressed honor and dreams upon his charges solely by the virtue of his force of will. They should have been here to share in Shinra’s victory today. Winning the war had been as much as their achievement over the years as his, despite how the company and the media had singled him out in particular for adulation. 

Briefly, Sephiroth wondered where the both of them were—were they watching, either the telecast or somewhere in the crowd? Was Genesis readying an attack with his clone forces? The PSD had heightened security due to the possibility of enemy attack, but Sephiroth had to push those concerns to the side as the expectact hush of the audience began to grow into restless murmuring. He cleared his throat, and began. 

“Mr. President, residents of Midgar, our neighbors from sister cities, and our friends from far-flung foreign lands. Today, I join everyone in recognizing the brave men and women from the Shinra Electric Power Company who made the ultimate sacrifice in the tireless pursuit of bringing the light of civilization and prosperity to all on the planet. Progress is not free. It demands a profound price from each and every one of us, from our youngest engineers who work late nights in order to realize the vision of building better, more powerful, and efficient mako reactors, to our soldiers—your husbands, wives, sons, and daughters—whose selflessness protect the abundance that we, the human race, have built and seek to spread throughout the world. 

“There are many of us who are bereft, in the shadow of their sacrifice, but we can seek solace in the knowledge that the courage and honor they have shown represent the best of who we are, and the best of who we can aspire to be. They have paved the way for our future, against the sabotage and wrath of our enemies—the enemies of scientific advancement and technological innovation—so that our children, and our children’s children can be assured of brighter, richer, safer lives than we enjoy ourselves today.”

Sephiroth paused, gazing out at the crowd observing him in solemn silence and at the rank of television cameras, one from every major city and town he could think of, trained on his face. He could not see the Shinra executives, all sitting behind him, Lazard invited amongst them for the day, but he could see the expressions of the high-ranking officers of the PSD, and his own SOLDIERs. They swelled with pride, even Zack Fair, who a scant few minutes ago looked as if he’d regretted getting out of bed earlier that morning. Next to Zack sat Kunsel, beaming even brighter than the sun. Sephiroth looked back down at the words displayed on his teleprompter, a final, flourishing tribute to Shinra’s greatness, and decided, after all, that he wanted his own damn words in his own damn speech.

“But right now, we are gathered to remember those who we have lost. We remember also, the names of those who are still deployed in service or missing in action, hoping fervently for their safe return. Come back to us. Please. And if ultimately, they do not, then we promise to honor their memories, whether in service, or even more importantly, as part of their actions in their daily lives.”

Sephiroth watched in satisfaction as Shinra’s PR team paled and panicked. They checked the teleprompter multiple times to see if it was malfunctioning, looking at their computers and looking at each other in confusion.

He continued where he left off in the speech, picking it back up as written, as if he hadn’t just interjected his own paragraph into it. There was raucous applause from the audience when he finished, and he waited silently for more photos to be taken before retreating behind the lectern to observe the rest of the ceremonies.

There was no way of knowing whether Genesis or Angeal was watching, but it gave him some small comfort to be the one to extend the olive branch to his friends first. Even if Shinra had denounced them, Sephiroth would welcome them home.

* * *

Cloud stared enviously at the PSD guards posted around the Presidential podium. They all looked like grizzled veterans by the wrinkles and scars on their cheeks and chins. He was willing to give up anything, except for Argenta Rhodea tickets—not that he had those, anyway—to stand that close to General Sephiroth in a ceremony such as this. 

They had been given the morning off from training in commemoration of the celebrations, though unfortunately that hadn’t meant they had free time. Instead, they were assembled in the yard to watch a broadcast of the proceedings, and reminded strictly by Sergeant Stanford that parade protocol was part of their final examinations, now just one month away. They were being closely watched by their instructors, and under Sergeant Emery’s glare, Cloud didn't dare to take his phone out to check up on the latest updates on Argenta’s mailing list, even when his attention wandered from President Shinra’s overly long speech. 

It had been over three weeks since Argenta Rhodea had saved his life, but he still hadn’t told Kunsel about it. He wanted to save it for when he saw the SOLDIER face to face again, though he had no idea when that would be. He also hadn’t posted anything about his encounter with Argenta on the forums. There were old threads of other members getting ripped apart for posting falsified accounts of meeting her, and those had been of the ordinary variety—how they’d seen her at an upscale boutique on the plate, or had a conversation with her after her show by the stage door. They hadn’t been remotely as fanciful as ‘she cast magic, twice, to save me and my buddy from getting mugged in Wall Market.’ No one in their right mind would ever believe that had happened. Roche was the only person he could talk about that night with, and even then that conversation frequently veered into Rufus Shinra terrority. Cloud wished he’d never told his friend about that theory. 

He turned his attention back to the giant screen as the audience applauded. Cloud clapped too, automatically, although he couldn’t remember a thing the President had said. A happy gasp escaped when he saw Sephiroth take the lectern. The Silver General looked strange in the SOLDIER dress sables, buttoned up on the neck, his shoulders appearing thin without his pauldrons, which were replaced instead by corded epaulettes. He had to remind himself of the man’s strength, obscured by the frock coat, how much muscle and sinew there must really be in his shoulders for him to lift the Masamune, which Cloud knew weighed almost as much as he did.

Sephiroth’s speeches were the only ones that Cloud had ever been able to listen to without getting restless. He let Sephiroth’s words remind him of his own dream of heroic acts of valor. He had made it all the way from Nibelheim to Midgar on his own. Soon, he’d graduate into the PSD with the rank of private, and take the SOLDIER selection examinations the month after. He’d already signed up for them with Roche. 

Cloud might have allowed himself a shy smile, as he closed his eyes and wrapped himself in the depths of Sephiroth’s voice coming over the speakers. Oh gods, did he have a thing for baritones? Cloud’s smile turned into a giggle. Maybe he did. 

The point of Roche’s elbow dug into ribs. “What’s so funny?” his friend whispered.

“Nothing,” Cloud hissed back.

“You just giggled. That’s not nothing.”

“I just realized that I might have a thing for deep voices, that’s all.”

Roche glanced at him and then back at the screen. “Get in line, buddy,” he snorted. 

Cloud’s cheeks colored at Roche’s subtle insinuation that he had a crush on Sephiroth too, but then, the General had more fans than he had men under his command, if not more. One could probably gather up all his fans in a line, and it would wrap around the perimeter of the Midgar plates three times.

“Oh, I’ll be right behind you,” Cloud joked, attempting some crude innuendo. Roche was a bad influence.

“Hey, you’ve got your drag queen to fan over. Let me have this one.”

Cloud smirked. “I can do both.”

Roche sniffed good naturedly, muttering about not wanting to imagine Cloud in the middle of a Rufus Shinra and Sephiroth sandwich. Cloud kicked him, and Roche had to hold in a yelp as they heard the telltale footsteps of Sergeant Emery approach.

* * *

“I’m sorry to have to summon you to my office,” Lazard Deusericus said, looking up from his computer screen as Sephiroth entered. “But I’m sure you can guess why.”

Sephiroth smiled faintly. Lazard was behind his desk, which had no chairs for his guests, meaning that Sephiroth, and everybody else who visited the director in his office, had to stand. It was a basic Shinra middle management intimidation tactic, so Sephiroth didn’t hold it against Lazard personally. 

“Being awarded the Medal of Valor and formally reprimanded on the same day? I can’t believe it took until this late in my career.” Maybe the reprimand meant that he was relieved of his obligations to attend the evening gala at the President’s mansion. He could only hope.

“I managed to convince them not to put it formally on your record.”

“You have my thanks,” Sephiroth said evenly. He disguised his sarcasm well, but Lazard knew him well enough to tell anyway.

Lazard was not military, but President Shinra had put him in charge of SOLDIER anyway, either due to personal favoritism, or more accurately, nepotism, if Kunsel’s accounts of the rumor mill were to be believed. Lazard did not have a military rank nor was he in Sephiroth’s chain of command, which allowed the two of them a certain degree of candidness, more than Sephiroth allowed himself to share with another military officer. As much as they were able to commiserate with each other on Shinra’s impenetrable policymaking, Sephiroth still had to remind himself that Lazard was a Shinra pencil-pusher. 

Lazard smiled sympathetically. “You know the execs don’t like you calling your own shots.”

“They seemed fine with it when the war was on,” when Sephiroth countermanding orders had delivered them victories. But now that the war was over, they saw no reason for him not to do as he was told. 

“I know, but let’s play along with the President just to keep the peace,” Lazard replied. “There’s no sense in fighting internal battles when there are plenty of external ones.” Lazard gestured at his computer, where the mission reports came in by the hour, and at the walls of the room, where the Wutai resistance and Genesis’s agents still doggedly remained at large. 

Sephiroth nodded curtly, in acknowledgement if not agreement. 

“Do you think your ploy will work?”

Sephiroth considered telling Lazard that he had no idea what the man was talking about, but he ought to expect more out of him. Lazard was a deft political administrator—he wouldn’t have staved off Heidegger’s ambitions at assuming control of the elite unit for so long without learning a thing or two. Sephiroth could hardly pass off his extra speech as him starting to grow soft. 

“There was no reason not to try,” Sephiroth replied instead. He was sure that Genesis had watched the broadcast, if only to see how much better it would have been if General Genesis Rhapsodos had delivered it instead. Whether Sephiroth’s plea would bring him back, either by himself or with his army in tow, Sephiroth couldn’t know. Months ago he would have answered a definitive yes to the former, because he’d known Genesis for nigh on a decade, but lately, he was beginning to wonder if he had ever known his friend as well as he thought he did. As for Angeal, the man was never much for ceremony. Sephiroth hoped he’d been watching too, that he, always the peacemaker whenever Sephiroth and Genesis’s personalities clashed, would see reason. All Sephiroth wanted was some sign that their years of friendship had meant something to them too.

“Is that all?” Sephiroth asked. The lack of a formal reprimand, unfortunately, meant that Presidential dinner plans were still on, and he should try to make his own life easier by keeping the President happy. 

“One more thing, actually,” Lazard said. “We’re short on Firsts, as you know, so I think it’s time we made some promotions amongst those left.”

“Didn’t Angeal recommend Zack already?”

Lazard inclined his head. “He did, but I’d like your assessment on suitable candidates.”

Sephiroth nodded. “You’ll have it by the end of the week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sephiroth’s dress uniform as drag was inspired by [this sequence about realness](https://youtu.be/ydA7-qCv570?t=103) from “Paris is Burning”, a documentary filmed in the late 1980's about New York City ball culture. Military used to be a real category in the ball scene. If you can find the film anywhere, it's worth a watch if you haven't seen it yet, because it's such an important part of our queer herstory.


	8. A Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mild battle-related gore

Zack felt like shit, having spent the past three days chasing sightings of Genesis clones across the southern Fort Condor badlands. He was used to solo missions by now, even though only Firsts got to tackle tough enemies by themselves. That fact didn’t make them suck any less though, having nobody to talk to for days on end but his chocobo. They were short-handed in SOLDIER, and though Zack thought that deploying Sephiroth as a field operative might alleviate some of the resource crunch, he wasn’t going to suggest that to Sephiroth’s face. That decision was way above his pay grade anyway. He hadn’t seen much of the man since the Shinra had thrown that giant ‘yay, the war’s over, don’t look over there at the clones’ party where they’d paraded poor Sephiroth around like an exotic new beast at the zoo. He knew that Sephiroth had taken on some of the training of the Seconds that used to be Genesis's and Angeal’s responsibilities, but even he had gotten instructions to teach the new Thirds the sword. He’d also been told to keep an eye on them and dissuade them of their PSD-learned habits—by force if necessary—but how was he supposed to do all that babysitting while also having missions assigned to him? In the badlands no less, the ass end of the continent.

Three days of work on two or three hours of sleep, just for a couple of crappy clones. Good fighting instincts, but they hadn’t been ones capable of language. Zack didn’t know what they were supposed to be accomplishing, they hadn’t seemed of any utility, and they certainly hadn’t looked like they’d escaped—too well-armed. He hadn’t been able to get any information out of them, nor any clues from their armor or weapons as to where they’d come from or how they’d even gotten to the badlands. It was as if they’d been deliberately planted there, purposefully devoid of useful intelligence.

Zack shambled through the entrance to the 49th floor in the small hours of the morning, needing a shower and some sleep badly, and maybe not in that order. Zack had gotten rid of the clones, but somehow it still felt like returning empty-handed. The SOLDIER floor was empty, everyone having returned to their barracks, and even Sephiroth’s office was dark. Huh, so Sephiroth did sleep after all. Zack went right to one of the couches in the lounge, a cushy, large sectional, and crashed. 

He woke up sometime during the lunch hour, having slept through the bustle of the morning. Anton Luxiere was perched on the end of the sofa. Zack blinked sleepily at him, taking a while to process the disorientation that he wasn’t in his bunk. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” Zack asked, when he’d figured out where he was and what time it was.

“We tried,” Luxiere smirked. He turned to the others in the lounge, just a motley collection of older Thirds. “Hey everybody, Princess Zack is finally awake, and I didn’t even have to kiss him.”

Zack scowled, and shoved Luxiere off the end of the sofa with his foot. His back hurt and there was a crick in his neck, so he wasn’t in the mood for joking around. 

“Rough night?” Luxiere asked.

“Rough three days, more like,” Zack grumbled, sitting up. He didn’t feel like he’d just gotten a good night’s sleep at all. He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can somebody get me a coffee?”

The room quieted. Zack looked up. Oh great, Sephiroth had arrived, and Zack probably still had incredible bedhead. Perfect timing. Sephiroth was sipping a cup of coffee, one of the nice ones from the cafe on the relaxation floor on level 61. He must just be returning from lunch.

“Woke him up for you, sir,” Luxiere said cheerily. 

“I see that,” Sephiroth replied, and thrust his coffee and its accompanying saucer at Zack. 

Ordinarily, Zack Fair was not in the business of accepting second hand coffees, even from his commanding officers, but he was so desperate for the caffeine he was willing to overlook, just this once, the fact that a bit of Sephiroth’s spit was in it. Zack accepted the proffered cup. 

“Thanks.”

Sephiroth nodded, and then glanced at Luxiere, still hovering nearby, with nothing better to do than wait for words of validation for standing guard over Zack all morning. 

“If you’re between missions, I’d like a coffee from the relaxation floor. Milk, no sugar.”

Luxiere paused. “Sir?”

“I have a meeting in fifteen, so make it quick.”

“R-right away,” Luxiere said, cottoning on quickly and making a beeline for the elevators. 

Zack hid his smirk behind the coffee cup as he drained it. The rest of the Thirds suddenly looked very busy checking their materia, doing squats, remembering that they had some training they should be doing. 

“Go have a shower and some food,” Sephiroth said, when Zack put the cup back down. “Meet me in Training Room 3 when you’re done. You missed an important lesson this morning, so you’re going to have to catch up.”

Zack groaned inwardly. The last time he had gotten one-on-one lessons from Sephiroth, he’d been bruised for a week, and bruises normally took him two days to heal. 

“Great,” Zack said, trying not to sound dejected.

“And bring your sword.”

“Okay.” After two days of hard travelling in the badlands, he was now also taking a trip to the infirmary. His week couldn’t get any worse.

* * *

Sephiroth was already waiting for him when he’d showered and scrounged up some food from the SOLDIER mess. Feeling clean and fed, he was almost ready to serve as Sephiroth’s punching bag. Or slicing bag, or whatever.

It was the Sister Ray simulation again, not the usual bland training courtyard. Sephiroth stood with his back to Zack, gazing out over the ocean and the giant cock—no, cannon—jutting over the cliffs. Should he break the silence? He wondered whether Sephiroth was deep in thought, or just admiring the view. 

“You really like this place, don’t ya’?”

“This is where we used to practice," Sephiroth said. Zack didn’t need to ask who he meant by ‘we.’

“You ever lived in Junon?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “You?”

Zack shook his head too. “Nah, I’m from Gongaga. Only ever been to Junon for short missions. In and out.”

“Me too.”

Zack approached Sephiroth carefully, wary of the Masamune and its two-meter radius of destruction. He’d seen Sephiroth wield that thing in battle—its incredible power was unreal, and so was the way he swung it. He made it look as light as a normal sword, and it weighed almost as much as a person, albeit a smaller one. Zack wasn’t sure if it was possible for Sephiroth to pull his slashes or thrusts with that thing. 

“What’s the training I missed?”

Sephiroth turned to him, the corners of his lips quirking upward. Good sign? Bad sign? Who could tell?

“I’m going to teach you Octaslash.”

Octaslash was Sephiroth’s signature maneuver. He’d come up with it years ago, just as he was rising to meteoric fame. It was a set of blows so fast, so powerful that it was almost impossible to defend against. The only people in the world who could manage that feat were supposedly Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley. Not even the other Firsts, like Lee-rong or Wolfgang could block all eight of Sephiroth’s blows.

“Wait, you taught everybody Octaslash this morning and I slept through it?!” No wonder Luxiere looked so damn smug.

Sephiroth regarded him as if to ask whose fault that was, and that it was by his good graces that Zack was getting a make up lesson at all. 

“Now everyone’s ahead of me!” said Zack, dismayed.

“What a rare occurrence,” observed Sephiroth dryly.

Zack winced. He’d walked right into that one. He’d have to work to catch up to everybody else, but at least he was used to work. “All right.” Zack took a deep breath, preparing himself. He hefted his standard-issue SOLDIER broadsword. “Hit me. I mean, figuratively,” he clarified quickly, hoping that hadn’t been an invitation for Sephiroth to literally unleash an Octaslash on him. 

Instead, Sephiroth gestured for Zack to lower his weapon. “Let me explain the basic principles first.”

Oh. Of course. Zack nodded and shouldered his blade. He tried not to bounce on his toes with nervous energy. Angeal might have called him Zack the Puppy, but he definitely did not want that nickname following him all the way to his next promotion, and he definitely didn't want Sephiroth to start thinking of him like that. It just didn’t have that fearsome First Class ring to it. 

“The theory behind the Octaslash is rooted in the Ancient Wutaian philosophy of harmony and unity.” Sephiroth began. He waved his hand, and the simulation projected a circle on the ground—half-black, half-white—enclosed by a larger octagon, each side corresponding to the cardinal and intermediate directions. “Each of the eight turns around the center symbolizes a transition of the classical elements, in both generative and destructive cycles, to form a cyclical whole. Fire needs water, water begets wood, wood refines metal, metal begets fire...”

Sephiroth continued on. This was going way over Zack’s head. Did he also somehow miss a Wutaian history lesson while he’d been out in the badlands? How the heck did Sephiroth know all this stuff, and how was it at all relevant to Octaslash, except in sharing the number eight? Zack’s preferred method of instruction wasn’t in the form of a lecture. He was more of a learn-as-you-do type of guy. Angeal had once told him if he hadn’t scored so well on his physical aptitude, he might never have made it into SOLDIER because his written exam scores were so dismal. Good thing SOLDIER valued brawns over brains, Angeal had joked. Surely, Sephiroth had also seen his test scores from years ago. Was this some convoluted payback for turning in the Banora Village report so late? That had been weeks ago, though. If it was, Sephiroth was continuing the charade admirably, and he kept going on about elements, seasons, directions, and cycles, until Zack timidly raised his hand.

“Question?” said Sephiroth, finally pausing. 

‘I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re droning on about and I think I lost you five minutes ago’ was not going to go over well, so Zack said, “Uh...theory isn’t exactly my strong suit, so I was hoping you could give me a practical demonstration?”

“I was getting there in the next fifteen minutes.”

Zack must have deflated conspicuously, because he thought he saw a smile flit briefly over Sephiroth’s features. Then he realized what was happening. “Hey!” he protested.

Sephiroth’s lips twitched again.

“You made up all that bullshit about harmony and cycles and stuff just to bore me!”

“Oh no, that’s real Wutaian philosophy.”

“How the heck do you know so much about Wutai?”

“The first step to defeating your enemy is knowing them,” Sephiroth replied, which was a Wutai proverb that Zack at least recognized. He supposed that Sephiroth must have studied them extensively in his youth, hence the Wutai-style Masamune he wielded.

Zack folded his arms. “You gonna teach me for real now?”

“I have been.” Sephiroth regarded Zack, and then quickly added, “but I can skip to the good part.”

Zack’s smile returned. “Yes, please,” he grinned, in what he hoped was his most winning, but not puppy-ish manner.

Sephiroth looked as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it, and continued. “The Octaslash is not the Octaslash because it has eight strikes.”

It wasn’t?

“It has eight blows because it comes from the hakke—this symbol, in case you weren't listening," Sephiroth gestured at the diagram, "which forms a circle. It can be executed in a straight line if your opponent is open, but the Octaslash is at its most powerful when you can circle around to an opening in your enemy’s defense. It is the combination of eight rapid strikes in different directions, and the ability to rotate in the midst of these strikes that makes the Octaslash such a powerful maneuver.”

Sephiroth called up an enemy from the simulation, a humanoid training dummy made of holographic grid lines. He showed Zack, slowly, the eight movements of the sword that made up the Octaslash, how to shift his weight and flow smoothly from one to the next, how to pivot around the fluid motions of his blade, and let his body act as a counterweight, instead of trying to awkwardly control the weapon in ways it didn't want to be moved with brute strength. 

It looked easy when Sephiroth did it, but Zack had trouble with even the first four movements when it was his turn. His sword didn’t move where it was supposed to, it was hard for him to change its trajectory from one motion to the other, and he kept getting his weight distribution wrong. Sephiroth fixed his stance, told him to stop trying to control the blade and to think of his own body instead as the counterweight of his sword's invisible fulcrum. That instruction didn't help, because Zack had no idea what it meant, so Sephiroth made him practice the maneuvers until he got them right. And then he made Zack do it twenty more times after that—eight slashes of his blade, though in reality the Octaslash could also be executed unarmed, using fists and kicks too. The unarmed version came much more easily to Zack, because it reminded him of Angeal’s Rush Assault, and Sephiroth confirmed that they’d bounced around ideas and refined the movements together, in endless hours of practice bouts, until their individual variations had been perfected.

When Sephiroth was satisfied that Zack had picked up the basic sword movements in a straight line, he then showed Zack how to move his feet. Eight steps in a perfect circle, not just surrounding an enemy in the center, but also twisting around his own axis, using turns and spins to gain momentum for sword strikes. Sephiroth showed him the combination, movements that stepped through and around the holographic enemy, as effortlessly as water flowing downstream, the Masamune slicing and weaving as if it were air. Sephiroth never forced the movements of the blade, instead adjusting the point where the blade rotated with easy movements of his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. It didn’t look anything like the way that Octaslash actually looked in battle, but maybe that was because Sephiroth was doing it so slowly. When Zack tried, he kept putting the wrong foot forward and twisting the wrong way, so Sephiroth made him put his weapon away and just do the foot and bodywork in circle after circle after circle.

It was late into the evening by the time Zack was allowed to leave the training room, with strict instructions to practice, and not even start to train against a virtual opponent or the aerial maneuvers until he’d gotten the fundamentals right. Zack was exhausted, and again in bad need of a shower and some food. Sephiroth headed back toward his office.

“Wait!” Zack said, just as the doors slipped open and Sephiroth was about to disappear. “I had a thought, but I forgot to tell you.”

Sephiroth's look told him that was not unexpected.

“I’m worried about all the Genesis clone sightings,” Zack continued. 

Sephiroth beckoned him into his office and shut the door behind him. He took a seat behind his desk. “I’m listening,” he said.

“What if they’re just diversions? What if Genesis is purposefully luring us away from Midgar?”

“That is actually one of the assumptions we are currently working under.”

Zack blinked. “But if you know it’s a trap…”

“If we don’t take the bait, then he’ll never spring the trap," Sephiroth replied, sounding reasonable. "Don’t make the mistake of assuming that Genesis is the only person laying one.”

Zack nodded. He understood, but it was a risky gambit. Their forces were spread pretty thin already, between having to protect Midgar, track down Wutai terrorists, and both Genesis and Angeal still at large. Sure, they had Sephiroth, who could face both defectors in combat and win, or at least that was what the media always touted about him throughout the years—that he was above those who were already a cut above the rest.

“Go get some dinner, Zack, and leave the worrying to me.”

Zack frowned. He wanted to do more, and not just passively have to trust his chain of command to figure things out for him, but he wasn’t known for being the plans and idea guy. Sephiroth could probably run octa-logic circles around him before breakfast. Reluctantly, Zack agreed.

“You want anything?” Zack offered. “A sandwich or something?” It occurred to him that Sephiroth hadn’t eaten anything for longer than he had.

Sephiroth shook his head. “I’ll grab something later, thanks.” He dismissed Zack with a wave.

In the elevator up to the relaxation floor, Zack ran into Luxiere again. 

“Have you been in the training room with Sephiroth all this time? What was he teaching you?”

Zack shrugged. “Octaslash. It was just a remedial lesson.” Since he’d slept through the main one, no thanks to Luxiere’s pithy attempts to rouse him. He didn’t want to mention that it had taken so long because he’d been so slow to pick it up. 

“He talked your ear off about Wutaian philosophy too, huh?”

Zack nodded.

Luxiere sighed. “I hope he teaches us some actual moves next time.”

“Oh.” Maybe this was one of those times he was supposed to keep his trap shut. “Same,” Zack said, his faint, hesitant smile garnering a sympathetic look from Luxiere. “All damn afternoon.”

* * *

For the first time since Genesis had left, Sephiroth ignored the stack of reports piling up in his inbox. Genesis clone sightings were escalating across not just the continent, but across the world, which meant that either Genesis would strike Shinra HQ soon, or something terrible and unforeseen that he had missed was going to happen instead. But Sephiroth still placed his bets on the former, for he could not imagine something big going down without Genesis gloating over his impending victory first, preferably in the flesh. His friend had always been prone to theatrics. The fact that Genesis was still alive and had won so many campaigns against Wutai was just a testament to his cleverness and ferocity despite his worst traits.

Sephiroth called up the roster of recommendations he had promised Lazard. There were too few Seconds who had enough experience, skill, and bravery to be promoted, and of those that he thought did, he was loath to toss them the extra burden of leadership, particularly now that they were besieged on multiple fronts. Nevertheless, SOLDIER needed Firsts, or no one would take care of the Seconds. He was doing his best to take on what Genesis and Angeal had done, but there were too many things to do by himself.

Howard Kunsel’s name was also on his list, but Kunsel would be deployed on more missions as soon as he was promoted, Sephiroth knew, and he couldn’t afford to lose Kunsel as a valuable source of information. Without Kunsel, he’d be flying blind, both within Shinra and with his efforts to piece together the convoluted trail of mysteries that had led to his two oldest friends’ sudden defection. It was starting to coalesce around Dr. Hollander, who had taken administrative leave a few months ago, but from Kunsel’s analysis, the scientist’s absence might point less to misconduct than it did a cover up. A cover up of what, though? Sephiroth knew from rumors that the man had once been in contention to take leadership of the Department of Science when Professor Gast had disappeared more than twenty years ago, but Hojo had emerged the winner instead. There was bad blood between Hojo’s research group and Hollander’s—they fought constantly for lab space, equipment, and funding—but none of that had ever gotten in the way of their commitments to the SOLDIER program, so Sephiroth had never paid heed to another department's internal politicking. So why now, of all times, would Hollander go missing too? Was it a coincidence that he was the one who had treated Genesis, when the degradation process had begun? What did that have to do with Angeal's disappearance? Sephiroth closed his eyes, his mind going around in circles. There were still too many unanswered questions, too many crucial pieces of the puzzle missing. 

Slowly, Sephiroth deleted Kunsel’s name. He needed the intel that Kunsel could provide more than SOLDIER needed Kunsel's leadership. He would have to find a way to make it up to the man someday, maybe when this was all over.

In the end, Sephiroth only sent one name off to Lazard. If the director wanted to promote more, he could come back and ask for further evaluations. In the meantime, Angeal had trained Zack Fair well, and Sephiroth hoped that his shoulders were wide enough to carry that legacy forward.

* * *

Cloud woke up bright and early on the morning of their final practical assessment as an enlisted recruit of the Shinra Public Security Division. He had endured almost six months of training and a week of examinations, both practical and written, to prove to his instructors that he was ready and fit for service. And once he passed this, the next SOLDIER intake was only in three weeks’ time. He and Roche had made a pact to jump straight from the PSD to SOLDIER together.

They’d been spending a lot of time in each other’s company in the past couple of months. Somehow, Roche always found him in the chow line, and they’d even taken to studying together during their one hour of free time each night, since Cloud needed extra help on Basic Medical and Military Protocol and Etiquette. Sometimes all Cloud wanted to do during their hour was talk about Argenta Rhodea and recap whatever the latest kerfuffle was on the forums, and Roche was the only person he knew who understood and could follow along. In fact, Roche often encouraged him to talk about it, which Cloud was more than happy to do. Since their close call that one drunken night in Wall Market, Roche had started throwing his arm around Cloud’s shoulders more than ever, and Cloud had stopped shrugging it off. 

Giselle and Tomas joined them for breakfast. Tomas had stopped making derogatory gay jokes a few weeks ago, which was a great relief, although Cloud would still consider the man barely tolerable. He was sure the feeling was mutual, but they managed to keep it civil between them.

“I’m so ready to be done with being a recruit,” Giselle said, and everyone agreed with her. They were all looking forward to not having to get up at the crack of dawn and being barked at by Sergeant Emery. Come this time tomorrow, they’d know whether they’d made the cut and which regiment they’d been assigned. The failure rate for recruits who had made it this far was low, but not unheard of if someone bungled a key part of the examinations. As newly graduated recruits, they didn’t get to choose which regiments they ended up in—that was based purely upon the numbers of openings and their individual aptitude scores—but Giselle and Tomas shared that they hoped to make it into Midgar Highway Patrol. When asked which part of the PSD they hoped to join, Roche and Cloud just grinned wolfishly at each other and answered, SOLDIER. 

The mess was a buzz of restless excitement. Cloud was so eager for the final assessment to start, he swallowed his food and chugged his coffee without even tasting it as it went down. After the meal, they got dressed in their uniforms, donned their helmets, and lined up in the courtyard, in front of an entire convoy of light-armored personnel transport vehicles. They were to be assessed in small groups of threes or fours, led by real PSD specialists, on a patrol around one of the city’s sectors. They were expected to demonstrate that they could perform the daily duties of a PSD private. 

Cloud secretly hoped to be assigned to Roche’s group, since he knew they worked well together, but he ended up with Aleksandr, his bunkmate, and Giselle instead. He and Roche nodded to each other and wished each other luck as they boarded their separate Humvees, Roche’s going to Sector 7, whilst their group, led by Specialist Juno Fernandez—a woman with a sardonic twist to her smile—was headed to Sector 8. 

They were briefed en route. Fernandez would stick with them during their assessment, so she could observe how they dealt with whatever the city threw in their direction, and only intervene if absolutely necessary. They were expected to work together as any ordinary patrol unit would, but were going to be scored individually. As long as they didn’t do anything egregiously stupid, they’d be as full PSD privates when they woke up tomorrow.

“You’re lucky they’re not bringing recruits into the slums for their tests anymore,” Fernandez remarked when they nodded that they understood that their mission objective was not fucking up. “That’s where I had to do mine.” 

“Why are they not doing that anymore?” Cloud asked. 

Fernandez shrugged. “Not sure, but I guess it had to do with the high number of recruits getting beat up so badly they needed hospital care during their assessments.”

Cloud grimaced and fell silent. He hoped that wherever in the PSD he ended up, it wasn’t a unit that had to patrol the slums. He stayed quiet for the rest of the ride, and tried not to think about his motion sickness, creeping up on him at the edge of his awareness.

The military convoy dropped them in front of the Sector 8 train station. It was early morning, before the beginning of rush hour, but the sector, widely known as the cultural center of Midgar, was already abuzz with activity. Tourists in guided groups were already emerging from their hotels, clustering together tightly and blocking foot traffic on the sidewalk. Shops and cafés were opening for business, lighting their signs and bringing out chairs and tables for their outdoor terraces. They were called to a quick meeting with Corporal Singh, the woman in charge of all the Sector 8 patrol units. She summoned a holographic map of the sector and outlined the boundaries of their patrol areas—Fernandez’s recruits were assigned the eastern business district, Floral Street and the surrounding vicinity, one of the busiest commercial areas in the sector. Cloud, Giselle, and Aleksandr eyed each other—just their luck to draw one of the hardest assignments. They were jealous of their fellows who had been assigned the residential district, which seemed like a much easier task. 

“Don’t be so quick to be envious,” Specialist Fernandez said as she handed them their radios, catching the looks between the recruits. “Domestic violence calls are the pits. I’ll take a good commercial area patrol any day.”

Singh dismissed them, and they headed their separate ways. Cloud and his friends spent the rest of the morning chasing after a man who had done an eat-and-run at a sandwich bar across from Pilcher’s Pub, and after he’d gotten away by losing himself in the crowd at Fountain Place, circling back to take statements from the shop owner and whatever witnesses were left. When that was done, there were minor traffic violations that needed to be ticketed—one motorcycle parked in a loading zone and a pickup truck in a clearly designated handicapped spot. Cloud was in the middle of looking up the vehicles’ registrations and looking forward to the impending lunch break, when he heard the faraway echo of people screaming. He ignored it at first—perhaps it was just an argument between two very heated parties, but then their radios crackled to life.

“Code 7-63 in Sector 8 residential district, I repeat, code 7-63 in Sector 8 residential district. All local units report in. Code 7-63A in HQ. All sectors, initiate lockdown procedures.”

Cloud wracked his brains. He suddenly couldn’t remember what a code 7-63 was, but anything starting with a seven was bad news. He looked to Fernandez.

“Enemy hostiles on the ground,” Specialist Fernandez supplied. Cloud couldn’t see her expression beneath her helmet, but the way her lips pressed into a thin line was not encouraging. 

“What?” Aleksandr asked. He almost dropped the machine that he’d been using to issue the parking ticket with. 

“We’re being attacked,” Giselle hissed. 

“Wutai?” Cloud asked.

“Who else?” Giselle replied.

Wasn’t the war supposed to be over, though? Cloud knew that the news had warned them of pockets of resistance to the peace treaty, but those were supposed to be halfway around the world in Wutai, not all the way here in Midgar itself. And furthermore, there was something in HQ. Shinra HQ? Or the PSD HQ? A bomb? An attack? Whatever it was, it was serious enough to be locking down the entire city. 

“Start rounding everyone up,” Fernandez said, forestalling further questions, her manner changing from relaxed insouciance to military efficiency. “Get everybody to shelter and tell them to bunker down. We need these streets emptied.” She managed to issue the orders before the Midgar warning klaxons went off. Not everyone in the area had stopped to cock a curious ear at the sound of the screams, for shouting was common in the city, particularly this time of day, but as soon as the emergency alarms blared to signal the beginning of an emergency announcement, all the Sector 8 residents paused in the middle of their activities to listen.

“This is an emergency announcement. Hostile forces have been identified on the streets of Midgar. The city is in lockdown. Please shelter in the nearest building, do not exit until the emergency has passed. Public transport will be stopped. This is not a drill. Do not evacuate, stay where you are and seek shelter. This is an emergency. This is not a drill.” Then the message repeated itself.

Cloud took a deep breath, his heart leaping into his throat. Both Giselle and Aleksandr had tensed up too, but they were managing to keep it together. They followed Fernandez’s lead, emulating the specialist’s confident air as she approached the nearest people who were beginning to panic, reassured them that everything was under control, and started calmly waving them inside the nearest open cafes and shops. She spoke with an even but firm tone, even though a tearful mother yelled in her face about having to get back home to her daughter. Fernandez was unperturbed, and continued to direct the woman indoors.

Cloud was less successful at corralling the people on the street, but he continued to try to do what Specialist Fernandez was doing. “It’s safer inside here,” he said to a woman who was trying to get back home just the next block over in the residential district. He guided her to the nearest open door, a record shop called The Oasis, whose owner was just about to close up shop, but was kind enough to let the woman in before slamming the door shut. 

The radio on his belt crackled non-stop, but Cloud only caught snatches of the distorted dispatches coming through. He heard the words ‘rogue’ and ‘Sweepers’ and something about men in unidentified uniforms. A chill went down his spine as he heard a muted boom, an explosion of some sort. Above the roofs of the brownstone buildings, a column of smoke began rising into the sky from the direction of Loveless Street just a few blocks away. The shrieking was getting louder and closer, and the people on his section of Floral Street weren’t moving nearly fast enough, except those who were obviously trying to make their way home, instead of inside the nearest shelter. Cloud prevented those nearest to him from leaving, but every other person had to be handled personally, and between just Specialist Fernandez, Aleksandr, Giselle, and himself they couldn’t stop everyone from going. 

Fernandez paused in her efforts to demand reinforcements into her radio, but she was being drowned out by a barrage of similar requests for aid. The smoke billowed closer, and Cloud began shouting louder, grabbing passersby and directing them to Giselle, who was standing beside the open door of the Mayfair Hotel, one arm windmilling as she waved people inside.

Cloud unbalanced slightly as he caught a man much larger than him and begged him to get to safety. He thought it must have been the man’s momentum that had thrown him, but even after the man left, Cloud felt the ground continue to ripple, and realized that it was the approach of something heavy that was shaking the plate so hard that he could feel it even through the thick soles of his boots. 

“Please be a friendly,” Cloud muttered under his breath, praying that it wasn’t the rogue Sweeper that the radio had mentioned. 

The droning of a nearby helicopter caught Cloud’s attention, and he raised his head to search for it. It was still far away, but he thought he could make out the red diamond of the Shinra logo. Reinforcements! Cloud breathed a sigh of relief, though it was short-lived. A few blocks along the straight, narrow corridor that was Floral Street, Cloud could see a cluster of people running, screaming, scattering like billiard balls. They were being pursued by a handful of strange hunched figures, who leapt forward slashing at them with metal that glinted faintly red, before circling back, and then dashing forward again in a different direction. It took Cloud a few seconds to realize that whatever they were doing, it wasn’t pursuit in the strictest sense, but the attackers were harrying the civilians for sport. What the twisted fuck was happening?

“They’re coming!” Giselle cried. She had seen them too. 

Fernandez and Aleksandr redoubled their efforts to get people to safety, leaving Cloud and Giselle to their own devices. Should they try to save as many people as possible? Should they set up some sort of defence perimeter? There were only the two of them. 

“We need to take them down,” Cloud said, making a split-second decision. If they didn’t move now, people were going to die. He heard the blood-curdling cry as a man went down, and his assailant leapt upon him. A second later, the screaming ceased.

“We have to move closer to get in decent firing range,” Giselle said grimly. She pointed down the street, where the parallel parking zone started. “Car engine blocks made decent shields.”

Cloud nodded. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run the other away, to turn tail and make an escape or hide in an alleyway and hope that nobody or nothing found him there, but Cloud forced himself to move forward at a jog, ignoring the sickening twist of his gut as he unslung the PSD-issue semi-automatic rifle from his back. It was lunacy for him and Giselle to be barrelling toward the enemy without assessing their capabilities first, but the two of them were better armed and better trained than the civilians running for dear life, with the unidentified intruders hot on their heels. 

It wasn’t until Cloud and Giselle had dived behind a boxy delivery van that it occurred to them to report what they were witnessing, in case someone was listening on the other end. 

“Hostiles incoming, currently on Floral and Bedbury,” Giselle said into her radio, sounding surprisingly calm, more than Cloud thought he would be in her position. “Heading west toward Loveless Street. Four men on foot. We’re engaging.”

Cloud hoped that wasn’t getting lost in the radio chatter. He crawled forward, edging around the hood of the van, hoping for a decent shot, but Giselle yanked him back down into hiding. 

“Shoot them in the back after they’ve run past us, dummy!” Giselle hissed. 

“But they’re going after civilians right now!” Cloud retorted, and shrugged out of Giselle’s grip. He edged out of hiding, setting his mouth grimly as he saw a middle-aged man in a suit, some office drone on lunch break, being pursued by a man in strange purple armor. Cloud was close enough to see twin red-colored curved blades in both hands. Office Drone jumped into an alley, and for a few seconds Cloud had a clear shot. He braced his weight against the side of the van, let out a breath, just as he was taught, and fired two shots.

Purple Armor staggered backward a step, a small spray of blood exploding from his shoulder from where the bullets had penetrated clean through.

“Yes!” Cloud hissed quietly. Beside him, Giselle loaded her rifle and slotted an extra clip on her belt, ready to relieve Cloud when he needed to reload.

Purple Armor swayed, but instead of dropping his blade and falling to the ground in pain, as Cloud expected, he turned in their direction and continued to advance with an uncanny shambling movement. 

“What the fuck?” Giselle breathed. She leaned her back against the car paralleled next to the van, steadied the rifle against her shoulder, and fired four shots in rapid succession. All four hit their mark, again staggering Purple Armor, but ultimately did nothing but slow him a couple of seconds.

Now all four purple-clad enemies had turned away from their quarry, and were making their way toward where Cloud and Giselle were hunched at the edge of the street. The rest of the civilians were dispersing, leaving them a clear shot. Cloud braced his shoulder against the rapid-fire of the rifle and kept his finger on the trigger until it started clicking, the clip emptied. The four men in Purple Armor continued, despite the blood dripping onto the ground at their feet, seemingly heedless of the pain and damage the bullets had torn through their flesh. 

Behind them, two Sweepers emerged onto the street behind them, each step of their giant metal claws reverberating off the brownstone, vibrating the very plate they stood on. They brandished their guns, like machines gone haywire, firing indiscriminately at everything around them, shattering glass, riddling doors with holes, and bringing down street signs in showers of sparks. The only things they didn’t fire upon were the four hostiles. 

How had the enemy managed to commandeer the Sweepers, Cloud thought, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the size of Shinra’s robot arsenal and whether just a few or all of them had been suborned by their enemy. Cloud and Giselle reloaded, and emptied another clip, finally bringing down one purple-armored man after riddling every limb and his entire torso with so much ammunition that his entire uniform was dyed red. It did not bear any insignia that Cloud recognized as belonging to Wutai or any other known organization. 

“We gotta retreat,” Cloud said, but Giselle was already on her feet before he’d finished, and hauled him up. The remaining Purple Armors were close enough that Cloud could smell the stench of blood coming off them. They growled as they moved, a chilling gurgling sound that was more animal than man. He and Giselle ran back the way they came, their only tactic to get away faster than they were being chased. Their boots pounded on pavement, and they turned back to fire off a few shots when they dared, when the snarling came too close. All their shots went wild. 

“Fire in the hole!” Amidst the chaos, Cloud registered Specialist Fernandez’s voice. He pulled Giselle alongside him into the nearest alleyway and clapped his hands over his helmet. 

There came the boom and flash of a grenade, accompanied by the smell of burnt asphalt and smoke, and finally followed by a round of more rifle fire. Fernandez couldn’t be far away if she had chucked that grenade. Cloud and Giselle ducked out of the alley, and rushed back to where their commander and Aleksandr were holding the line behind a small makeshift barricade of felled phone booths, a Midgar Postal Service mailbox, and a few tables that had been commandeered from a nearby pizza parlor. They were backed by another group of four that had been on their assessment rounds, but three more recruits and one more specialist did not an army make. There must be more coordinated attacks on the city if the PSD were spread so thin in a place like Sector 8. 

The hum of the helicopters was growing louder, until they sounded like they were practically overhead, but Cloud didn’t have time to look up as he scrambled into the timed firing squad that the two specialists had organized. He tossed his empty clip aside and hastily reloaded. 

“Fire!” Fernandez ordered.

A hail of bullets shot forth, tearing through the purple-clad hostiles, they managed to down another, but there were still two left, and the remaining bullets glanced harmlessly off the armored plating of the rogue Sweepers. Those things were resistant to projectiles and grenades alike, and the ammunition they carried could rip a hole clean through three solid inches of steel. They’d have no trouble penetrating their improvised barricade, or making short work of the people crammed into the restaurants and shops on the rest of the Floral Street behind them.

Cloud could not see Fernandez’s gaze behind her helmet, but he heard hesitation in her voice as she ordered them to steady themselves for another salvo. She wasn’t going to order a retreat, was she? Cloud gulped. Time seemed to stretch, as his fingers couldn’t quite move as quickly as they needed to for him to reload his rifle. He inserted his last clip, and nobody had thought to toss him any spares. It was possible there wasn’t enough to go around. 

He finally spared a glance above at the dark underbelly of the helicopter hovering overhead. It was directly over them now, but didn’t seem to be doing anything, didn’t seem to be trying to land or even offering supportive fire. All he saw was a white flash of light, the noontime sun glinting off the rotor blades. Wait, no, that wasn’t it, something was falling from the copter. 

The plate shook again at the impact of the landing, a small cloud of dust rising from the street. Cloud put his hand up to keep it from getting into his eyes, until he remembered that he was wearing his helmet, which covered them already. When he lowered his hand, he thought his goggles must be malfunctioning, or else he must be hallucinating silver hair, a black leather coat, white pauldrons, and the Masamune reflecting the midday light.

Sephiroth stood in the middle of Floral Street, in front of the two remaining men and the two Sweepers. The machines had stopped firing on the brownstone and turned their barrels on him instead. The Silver General lifted his sword and charged forward without a word, without looking back. The Masamune swung in two wide, graceful arcs, and Cloud felt the air pressure shift before it, the soft hum of a metallic melody. The blade sliced clean through sinew and bone and then abruptly changed direction to turn back the Sweeper’s bullets, which bounced harmlessly off the brick facades and the parked cars lining the street, hardly denting them.

The remaining armored men collapsed into the street, their bodies cleaved clean through, spilling blood and shiny, pink viscera. Cloud could hear the Sweepers parts whirring to reload for another round, but Sephiroth was faster than the machines, a black and silver shadow as he rushed in close, the Masamune taking chunks out of their reinforced armor with each cut. Sephiroth was practically underneath them as they fired volley after volley at him. He either dodged or deflected their attacks, moving faster almost than Cloud’s vision could resolve. 

“Hold your fire,” Fernandez commanded, though no one in their line was even thinking of it. They watched in awe as Sephiroth single-handedly took on enough mechanical firepower for two whole platoons, showing no hint of hesitation as he danced about their metal feet, the swinging the Masamune in wide arcs, each strike tearing deep into their body, making them more slower, more unsteady.

They toppled onto the ground with the groan of warping metal as Sephiroth cut their claws from under them. Two anti-air rockets emerged from each of their bodies, as their circuits sparked their final throes. Instead of being pointed at Sephiroth, the artillery was now pointed at Floral Street, at the brownstones crammed full of sheltering civilians, at them, the PSD, doing their best to protect the city.

Cloud drew a breath, and almost covered his eyes a second time. He thought that if the last thing he’d ever see in the world was General Sephiroth in the flesh, then there were few regrets he had left in his life. He resisted closing his eyes, and stared instead at Sephiroth, whose fingers curled as if gathering an incredible energy in his palm.

A bolt of lightning materialized out of thin air, a thick column of light so brilliant that Cloud was blinded. The acrid odor of ozone penetrated the air, and he was knocked back by the sizzling shockwave of ionized air as wind erupted around him. Cloud waited for the rockets to land, for it to end, but instead the two Sweepers collapsed in on themselves, legs twitching, rocket launching barrels melted by the heat. 

“Get down!” Fernandez cried, but her warning came too late. The rockets were armed, with nowhere to go, the two Sweepers detonated with a ground-shuddering blast, flinging solid slabs of armor and deadly shrapnel in all directions. 

Cloud flinched away, but the flying debris that came toward him suddenly bounced away, as if stopped by the air itself. Cloud lifted his head. Sephiroth had landed before them, his right hand lifted, gloved fingers stretched wide. He held aloft what seemed like a shimmering forcefield, wide enough to cover the entire width of Floral Street. The glimmering barrier faded slowly when Sephiroth’s hand dropped. 

He turned and regarded them, the remains of the fight smouldering in ruins behind him. Sephiroth was so close, Cloud didn’t have but to move a few steps to reach him. He had hung posters in his room of this man, stared for endless hours at those green eyes, brilliantly hued, vertically slitted like a feline’s—the result of a spontaneous mutation yet to be discovered—but he had never seen them in person, never so close. Sephiroth’s silver hair fell to the back of his knees, as smooth and untangled as Cloud had always imagined it must be, only a few hairs faintly rising in the ionization that lingered from his Thundaga spell. The image of him burned itself into Cloud’s mind—the square set of his shoulders, his unblemished skin, the vaguely sensual curve of his bottom lip which Cloud only now realized he might have been attracted to this entire time, long before he’d known what the word had even meant. 

Sephiroth was looking amongst them, and then Cloud realized he was searching for their rank collars. They were wearing nothing about their necks, since they were just recruits, but he didn’t know that. 

“General, sir!” Fernandez saluted crisply, the first to shake herself of the awe that they were graced by the presence of the Silver General, that he had just wiped out every enemy in their vicinity in a matter of two minutes or less. “What are your orders?”

“Report to Fountain Place, the PSD is mounting a central response. I’ll secure the area.” Sephiroth’s gaze swept the small group again, and Cloud thought he saw Sephiroth’s pupils narrow in realization. “This is no place for recruits.”

“This is their final assessment, sir,” Fernandez clarified.

“Then see to it they survive.” 

“Aye, sir!” Fernandez saluted again. 

The ground shuddered once more. More Sweepers? Cloud didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay and watch Sephiroth fight, to witness again the fluid, brisk movements of the greatest military genius who had ever lived, the man who he had looked up to for as long as he could remember. He didn’t want to be useless here, he wanted to fight too. Dust was rising between the buildings the next street over, and if Sephiroth asked for volunteers to assist him, Cloud would be the first to raise his hand. 

Sephiroth nodded at Fernandez and the other specialist. He lifted the Masamune, a scintillating curve of silver, as if he intended to personally engage every single enemy that had dared come into their city. His city. 

“Go,” Sephiroth commanded the group. “Before more of them come.”

Cloud’s breath froze in his lungs. He had heard that voice before, he had heard those words before. He stood, staring at the man he had worshipped since childhood. Sephiroth turned away from them. More men in purple and suborned Shinra machines came into the view at the end of the street. 

“Let’s go, Cloud!” Cloud looked down. Aleksandr had grabbed him by the wrist. He lurched backward as his bunkmate towed him along, in the opposite direction of the black blur of General Sephiroth, who had already saved his life not just once, but twice now.


	9. Scars of Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mild gore

Sephiroth stalked the streets of Sector 8, leaving a trail of carnage behind him, sparing neither the Shinra mechs nor the Genesis clones that appeared in his path. He paused between battles to check the encrypted communiqués on his phone. He and Zack Fair—newly promoted to SOLDIER First Class just the day before—had split up to protect the sector, and from the messages he was seeing, there were Turks out in force as well. 

Fury and disgust roiled inside of him every time he ran across a Genesis copy. Though they wore visors and masks to hide their identity, Sephiroth could still see the arrogant smirk that twisted their lips, the same that had belonged to his old friend. Reports from the missions undertaken by the Seconds and Thirds the past few weeks had described them as mindless creatures, driven by pure animal instinct, though a few occasionally exhibited herd behavior or child-like intelligence. There were more clones in the city than Genesis had taken with him from SOLDIER when he’d defected, so some of the simpler ones must be lab grown, or else corrupted from other sources. Sephiroth pictured them as floating monstrosities in those glass Shinra tubes, drowning in the thick, putrid viridian gel that was a mix of mako and saline and gods knew what else. He had always hated the sight of them in the Shinra laboratories, counting himself fortunate in his ignorance of the mutated horrors that Hojo and the rest of the Shinra Science Department cooked up.

The Public Security Division used Shinra’s genetically modified canines as part of their units, but Sephiroth had sworn that SOLDIER never would, so long as it was under his command. Angeal and Genesis had been similarly repulsed by the tentacled hounds; how desperate must Genesis be to not only use the clone technology on his own comrades, but also to be siding with one of their inventors, Dr. Hollander? Science had covered up his disappearance for months, and if it hadn’t been for Kunsel keeping an ear to the ground and documenting the rumors swirling about the department’s interns and postdocs, Sephiroth would be none the wiser.

Sephiroth scanned the skies as he cleaved a Cutter in two, the giant juggernaut twitching as its circuits were severed, its batteries leaking concentrated mako onto the pavement. Genesis must be here in Midgar somewhere. The man had always led his own troops into battle, because he relished the terror in his enemies’ eyes when he led the charge, swinging his crimson blade, alight with fiery magic. Genesis had always coveted the fame and glory that Sephiroth had never wanted for himself. There was no way he wasn’t in the city, watching and gloating as it went up in flames and smoke.

Sephiroth cut down two more clones, thrusting the Masamune through their bodies and casting Fira in their faces. He dashed the blood dripping from his blade onto the ground. Someone needed to talk some sense into him. In Angeal’s absence, Sephiroth was the only person left who could do such a thing. 

Red-coated man spotted in Sector 7.

Sephiroth stared at the message on his phone. They had all lived in Sector 7, Genesis’ apartment had been just a few blocks away from Sephiroth’s high-rise, and Angeal’s the next block over.

I need transport to Sector 7.

Sephiroth sent his location, and a few minutes later, a helicopter appeared overhead and extended him a ladder. He climbed up quickly.

Leaning out the open side, Sephiroth gazed over Midgar as they took to the air. He had never seen so many fires over the city. The highway had ground to a standstill, cars abandoned in a winding chain, leading all the way to the bridge across Sectors 7 and 8, and ending in the empty, blackened husk of a crab-shaped sentinel. 

He was dropped off at Broad Avenue in Sector 7, along with Tseng, the Turk babysitter who had accompanied Zack to Banora Village. 

“I can handle this on my own,” Sephiroth said. 

“I’m conducting my own investigation,” Tseng replied mildly, standing calmly in the empty street as the wind from the helicopter’s rotor blades tugged his dark ponytail and blew dust into his eyes. “Don’t mind me.”

Sephiroth strode away, resenting the surveillance, but the Turks operated outside his chain of command. Tseng followed in the same direction, just a few steps behind.

Broad Avenue was the center of the newly built Sector 7 residential district, a collection of soaring, glass skyrises for the well heeled citizens of Midgar. With few commercial storefronts in this area, the sidewalks were deserted as the emergency broadcasting system continued to repeat the message ordering the citizens to shelter inside. The citywide lockdown had prevented most of Genesis’ forces from spreading too far outward from Sector 8, but there were columns of smoke rising from Sector 7, including the tower that had once housed Genesis’ apartment, meaning that some had forced their way through.

Sephiroth headed toward it, hefting the Masamune in his hand, on the lookout for an ambush as he approached. Tseng was similarly alert, his eyes darting from side to side, scanning the windows for signs of possible attack from flesh and metal foes alike. They reached the double-doors of Genesis’ old building without incident. Its panes were shattered, empty frames left in their stead. The shards of glass strewn across the lobby crunched beneath Sephiroth’s boots as he went inside. He rushed up the stairs, with Tseng behind him, radioing emergency fire fighting units to their address.

Genesis’ apartment was on the floor just below the penthouse. It was stupid to be running toward the acrid tang of smoke as the fire alarms blared in his ears, but Sephiroth did it anyway, certain that Genesis or his genetic facsimile had been here. Genesis’ apartment had been cleared out shortly after the war had ended, his old belongings would have been destroyed had Sephiroth not intervened to save the most sentimental items—handwritten diaries filled with mediocre poetry, rare out-of-print editions of _Loveless_ , old photographs of the three of them. Sephiroth had convinced Shinra to confiscate them and put them in storage as materials relevant to an ongoing investigation, just in case they might contain hints to the man’s motives or whereabouts. Whoever had moved in after, Sephiroth didn’t know, but he saw them now, two women lying in a heap on the floor of the department, their blood staining the rug in the center of their living room a deep ochre. 

The words ‘Meet me in Mako 5’ were scrawled across the white walls, the blood already dried, the letters spattered across a recent wedding photo and an assortment of other photographs—the beach at Costa del Sol, winter solstice at Icicle Inn, an unknown lake somewhere in the middle of the mountains. Two doctorate degrees in biology awarded from Midgar University hung askew on the walls.

Sephiroth closed his eyes, fingers tightening around his sword, his leather gloves creaking against the bindings wrapped around the hilt. Genesis had killed those people, just to leave him a message. Was it a threat? An invitation to duel to the death? Right now, Sephiroth would gladly take the man up on the latter, incensed as he was by the senseless violence Genesis had enacted. In some perverse way, he was glad that Angeal was not here to see his old friend sunk so low. It would have broken his heart. Or perhaps Angeal already knew, and was capable of the same twisted, reprehensible deeds. 

“I want everything you can find on these people on my desk tomorrow morning,” Sephiroth growled.

“Whenever we can get it,” Tseng replied reasonably. They’d be doing their own investigation, of course. 

Sephiroth turned away from the grisly scene and back out the door. His rage was cold as he climbed the few remaining stairs to the roof. Tseng radioed for transport to Mako Reactor 5.

“You go on ahead,” Tseng said when Sephiroth could hear the faint drone of a helicopter on the approach. “I’ll take care of things here.”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed. He knew what the Turks meant when they said they were going to take care of something—another corporate cover up to pin the blame on the Wutai resistance. That had been the narrative for Genesis’ activities for months—quick, simple, and convenient for the media and the populace to swallow.

He froze the fire on the roof with a simple Blizzard spell, cracking the sad pile of refuse and other easily combustible materials into a solid block of ice. It was a signal fire, not something intended to burn down the building. Genesis had meant for him to come here, and Genesis was waiting for him at Mako Reactor 5.

* * *

Cloud was still in a daze when the Humvee arrived, and Aleksandr had to shove him into it. He sat at the rear, still staring in the direction that Sephiroth had disappeared. The sector had gone quieter in the General’s wake. Was he felling enemies so quickly that he was single-handedly defending the city? That seemed like something that Sephiroth should be capable of doing, much in the way that the audience had hushed so quickly when Argenta Rhodea had first appeared, spotlighted and glimmering in the entrance of the Honeybee Inn.

He thought about that night, how she had stolen his breath instant, and how he had thought of her every single night since. Cloud pictured her magnificence as she descended from the chocobo carriage, that one time he and Roche went to Wall Market themselves, her image as a goddess of ice immortalized in his memory. Roche had sent him the picture he’d snapped of her, and Cloud had secretly admired it every day on his phone. He hadn’t shared it with the forum, because he wanted to keep that image of her all to himself. She had saved him and spoken to him that night, and Cloud did not want to ever forget that it had happened. 

Cloud wanted to look at that picture again, thinking perhaps he was mistaken, that six words and a deep, authoritative voice were probably just a coincidence. On impulse, he slipped his phone from his pocket, so distracted he’d forgotten that he was starting to feel queasy. The plastic shell of it was a little scraped up, but it was otherwise unharmed despite the battle he’d seen. Cloud glanced up surreptitiously at his comrades, and realized that Giselle, Aleksandr, and Specialist Fernandez were speaking to him, waving at him to catch his attention. He heard them, but they sounded far away, even though they were crammed so closely in the transport their knees knocked together every time it hit a pothole.

“Cloud!”

“Strife!” the specialist barked, and that finally shook Cloud from his reverie. 

“Are you okay?” Giselle asked, concerned.

Cloud nodded numbly. 

“Then look sharp, we’re here.” Fernandez said.

A small base of operations was already set up in Fountain Place. Several tents were erected, and Cloud could see an infirmary for treating casualties, a command center, and a mobile communications unit in the barricaded streets. 

“We’ll do ops support from here on,” Fernandez said as they disembarked. “Got orders to keep you three alive, and someone has to keep the logistics running.”

It was organized chaos in the forward base, always something or someone on the move. Transports came and went past security checkpoints, stretchers being loaded and carried off, troops of engineers reinforcing their mobile fortifications. Cloud knew all the basics, but his mind still swam as he tried to recall protocol and figure out some way to be useful here, some way to be useful to Sephiroth. One more life lost in the city was one they had failed to protect, because the Silver General couldn’t be everywhere at once. The PSD had to do their jobs too. 

Realizing that he was still clutching his phone in his hand, Cloud was about to slip it back into his pocket when someone called his name.

“Cloud!”

He looked around, and was almost knocked off his feet when someone tackled him in an embrace from behind.

“You’re okay! I heard you were in the thick of it on Floral Street!”

Cloud tugged at Roche’s arms, wrapped so tightly around his ribs he was having trouble breathing. “Roche!” he croaked. “You’re crushing me!”

Roche loosened his arms, but he didn’t let go. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

“Listen, I need to talk to you. I know who Argenta—”

“—so scared that something had happened to you.” Roche yanked Cloud against him, squeezing him so hard that the breath left Cloud’s body in a rush.

Cloud realized he hadn’t given a second thought to Roche since the city had come under attack, but he was grateful that his friend was okay, even if he had no idea how Roche had ended up here. 

“I’m fine too, by the way.” Giselle’s sardonic voice interrupted his thoughts. Roche finally let Cloud go, taking a quick step backward, as if remembering where he was.

She extended a fist, in lieu of a hug, and Roche bumped it with his own. “Of course I know you’re gonna be okay,” he grinned goofily.

“Is anybody gonna ask about me?” Aleksandr said. 

“Attention!” 

Instantly, all four recruits straightened into a line and threw four identical salutes. Fernandez nodded in satisfaction. She turned to Roche. “Where’s your unit…?”

“The name’s Hoffman, sir.”

“Where’s your unit, Hoffman?”

Roche cast his gaze downward. “They didn’t make it, sir.”

Cloud sucked in a breath audibly. Roche had been assigned to a group with Hart and Russo. Cloud hadn’t known them particularly well, but it was difficult to imagine two recruits dead. They were all on their final assessment, just before graduation. What had happened in Sector 7?

“Who was your CO?” Fernandez asked.

“Specialist Andrews, sir,” Roche replied. 

“How’d you get here?” 

“We were patrolling the edges of the plate when an attack from a crab sentinel hit the bridge, so we decided to help evacuate it. A woman with curly red hair disabled it after it took out the rest of my unit and brought me here. She was wearing a black suit.”

A Turk? Cloud wondered. They were rumored to exist as Shinra’s shadow operatives, but no one he knew had ever seen one. They were more urban legend than an actual department that existed. 

“You’re with me, then,” Fernandez decided abruptly. “Take five to gather yourselves, then we support the forces defending our city.”

The radio crackled non-stop all through their five minutes, Giselle and Cloud moving to embrace Roche, who seemed only now to fully register that two of his fellow recruits and commanding officer had just died in the line of duty.

* * *

His friend had a lot to answer for. 

Sephiroth and Zack Fair both stared at the downed creature, the oddly pale Sahagin with a grey, colorless shell, mottled white feathers, and an elongated neck that ended in the features of Angeal Hewley. It was so incongruous that no matter how Sephiroth looked at it, it appeared as if Angeal face had been artificially chiseled onto the creature, more like gilded, ornamental stucco than a manifestation of the thing’s own genetic code. It was unusual to see a Sahagin in a mako reactor, those creatures typically preferred the wetter climes of the sewers. Someone had brought it here, and then let it out.

Sephiroth did not want to accept the possibility that Angeal was in league with Genesis and Hollander. He had hoped that his friend had left to find them and stop them, and maybe when Angeal was ready, he would ask Sephiroth to join him on his mission. They would find a way to cure Genesis’ degradation together. Sephiroth didn’t want to believe that Angeal was just as culpable in the attack on the city, but he was unable to draw another conclusion when faced with the incontrovertible evidence of a Sahagin bearing Angeal’s visage. The hope that he had shielded so carefully within him now extinguished, and he watched it die within Zack Fair too. 

Sephiroth told Zack the story of how it had all begun, he deserved to know. It had started with an ordinary evening fooling around in the training room, doing what they always did, hanging out, sparring, trying to forget about the war. Sephiroth had earned another commendation from the President, one he’d tried to refuse because the victory had been won thanks to Genesis’ plan, not his. President Shinra had finally caved to awarding Genesis a medal too, though one lesser in honor than what had been bestowed to Sephiroth. That discrepancy had rankled with Genesis, and put the man in a foul mood for weeks. Sephiroth had thought that he could hardly be blamed for the President’s choices. Had he not done his best to ensure that Genesis had been recognized too? Why was that not enough for his friend? He had grown tired of Genesis’ peevish pettiness, and had sought instead to prove, once and for all, which of the two of them was the superior warrior. 

Sephiroth smiled bitterly, when he related the memory, knowing now who had ultimately proved himself to be the petty one. 

“How could it come to this?” Zack asked sadly. He leant over the edge of the steel platform, suspended above the roiling reactor coolant, resting his arms on the metal railing as he peered thoughtfully into the darkness. 

It was a rhetorical question, but nevertheless Sephiroth knew that he, in part, was to blame. He should never have taken Genesis’ challenge, and he should have stopped when Angeal had tried to intervene. He should have let Genesis win. Perhaps it would have been a matter of time for Genesis’ degradation to be discovered, but if Sephiroth were given the opportunity to choose again, it would not be by his hand. He had deserved every last minute of Angeal’s hours-long lecture that had followed the incident, and he deserved it still, even though his friend was no longer around to give it to him. 

Sephiroth’s thoughts were elsewhere as he and Zack picked their way through the harsh blue lighting of Mako Reactor 5, their boots echoing on steel grating. The reactor was a warren of maintenance tunnels and monitoring chambers. In the old days, there used to be Shinra employees who worked around the clock here, but the advent of remote monitoring systems rendered that need obsolete. Nowadays, maintenance crews only came to the reactors once or twice daily at best, to perform routine checks on the fitness of the equipment and piping, while the vital system operating parameters were monitored from headquarters.

It would have taken them hours to search every corridor and every chamber for signs of Hollander if Zack hadn’t found the security console. They combed through only a few days worth of footage before they noticed that only certain cameras suffered power outages, allowing them to pinpoint the entrance to Hollander’s hideout. They had to divert a small portion of the reactor’s power to unlock the door. Instead of squeaking on corroding metal hinges, it slid open with silence menace and the familiar stench of formaldehyde and preservatives. Sephiroth suppressed a shudder as he entered. 

The secret laboratory was Shinra’s science department in miniature, with three cramped cylindrical specimen containment pods clustered in a corner. They were made mostly out of copper, with only small windows made of glass, an older design, similar to the ones Sephiroth had seen images of in the abandoned factory in Banora Village. Next to the pods were a bank of computers, slightly more modern, but still leftovers from the previous generation. In the back of the room there was a chemical hood, several shelves of various reagents, and a jury-rigged operating table that made Sephiroth’s stomach turn to imagine what sort of procedures might have been carried out on it. This wasn’t a lab space by design, but someone had spent months making it serviceable for that purpose. A staircase in the back led upward into the ventilation system, its path obscured by more steel grated platforms. 

There was no dust here, and the chemical tang of cleaning fluids and rubbing alcohol was fresh. A person and maybe people, plural, had been here recently. The harsh lighting and deep shadows reminded Sephiroth of the multitude of unpleasant hours he’d spent in Hojo’s lab as a boy, being poked at and prodded by his scientists. He’d despised the indignity of being referred to as a specimen, of having every part of his body treated as the bed for some kind of experiment, even though he could see and hear and understand what the scientists were muttering under their breath.

Despite his better judgement, Sephiroth took a peek inside one of the containment pods. As a child, Hojo used to show him the abominations he made, explaining everything he’d done in grisly detail. Sephiroth instantly regretted looking into it, repulsed by the vague humanoid shape floating in mako-infused saline. He felt sorry for the thing inside, though not so sorry that he didn’t consider putting its misery to an end, if it weren’t dead already. Surely, that would be a kindness. He could not imagine a more wretched existence than being the subject of a Shinra science experiment. 

Genesis had condoned this, Sephiroth thought, furious. How else could the man’s clones have been created, save for this abhorrent method? 

Sephiroth turned away quickly and found something else to occupy himself. He let Zack explore the laboratory freely while he went to the computer, to comb through the files contained there. He noticed that his hands were shaking as he rested his fingers on the keyboard. Whoever had been here last had neglected to lock it, and as Sephiroth pulled up file after file, he noticed that some of them were digitized versions of older documents that had been reported missing—classified Shinra Science Department secrets. He tabbed through information about the Ancients, Genesis’ degradation, and a huge folder of something that was only called Project G. 

He remembered that the scientists had spoken in hushed tones about two types of SOLDIERs, G-type and S-type, but never aloud, as if it were some secret that only the Science Department was supposed to know about. Sephiroth had always assumed it had something to do with the phases of cellular division. Had he been too naive? Sephiroth searched through every folder quickly, looking for filenames that might be reports or manuscripts, searching amongst the reams of text for headings like ‘Executive Summary’ and ‘Objectives’ and skipping sections called ‘Materials and Methods’, which could make even a man of his constitution queasy. He never had the stomach for human experimentation, even though he knew that his own SOLDIERs and his own enhancements were a product of such research. If these documents were to be believed, his own friend, Genesis Rhapsodos, was a product of it too. 

Sephiroth’s hand tightened into a fist as he continued to read, and he had to push the keyboard further away from him to avoid the temptation to smash it to pieces. He forced himself to read on, to quench the rage that began to rise inside of him, prioritizing cool-headed efficiency, because his long association with Genesis demanded that he continue until he learned the truth. Sephiroth began piecing together what he read with what he knew from Kunsel’s intelligence—Shinra’s discovery of an Ancient, Genesis’ degradation process, Hollander’s involvement in treating him. What must the scientist have promised his friend in exchange for his allegiance? A cure? The destruction of Shinra? Revenge against all who had ever wronged him?

Genesis must have been overcome with grief if Hollander had shown him these files, discovering his origins like this, written dispassionately as if his entire life existed just to prove Hollander’s hypothesis, his entire existence a scientist's ongoing intellectual exercise—just because Hollander thought he could recreate an Ancient. 

Poor Zack stared over his shoulder in dismay. Sephiroth wished he had the luxury of hiding the truth from him. Zack Fair lived in a simpler world, and Sephiroth was sorry to have to take that away from him. 

He was no longer angry when Genesis Rhapsodos, not a clone or a copy, but the man himself in the flesh, appeared, descending gracefully from the platforms above them, his one wing beating as he landed, stirring the still air. He was one step ahead of Hollander, who staggered down the stairs as if he’d just awoken from a long nap and was experiencing a rude surprise to find unwanted guests in his secret hideaway. Genesis must not have told Hollander he’d extended invitations. 

There was only pity in Sephiroth’s heart as he faced his old friend, whom he hadn’t seen for more than half a year. A part of him recoiled at the wing extending from Genesis’ back, and another part gazed upon it with wonder. Thick feathers floated down from the platforms above their heads, where Genesis must have been watching them quietly the entire time. 

“I won’t let you take Hollander,” Genesis threatened, lifting his rapier, its pointed tip just inches from Sephiroth’s throat. 

Sephiroth made no move. If Genesis had wanted to kill them, he could have done so in the hour they had spent reading the reports on Project G. Genesis had wanted him to know the truth, and Sephiroth had made the mistake of picking a fight with Genesis once. He wasn’t going to make that mistake a second time.

Hollander fled anyway, perhaps sensing that Sephiroth’s mercy would not extend to him. Zack gave chase, even though Sephiroth would have relished capturing the man himself and making him pay for every way he had wronged Genesis. He hoped that Hollander wouldn’t slip on a grate and go sailing off the edge to meet his end in the depths of the reactor coolant—a quick death was too good for him.

Sephiroth and Genesis were left alone with each other, as the sounds of the footsteps clanging on steel faded. Sephiroth was prepared for his friend to take off and pursue Zack, but Genesis lowered his rapier instead. 

“There is no hate, only joy,” he recited, his blue eyes glittering with bitterness. “For you are beloved by the goddess. Hero of the dawn. Healer of worlds.”

Sephiroth closed his eyes, recognizing the lines from the second act of _Loveless._ Briefly, they brought him back to the salt spray of the Sister Ray simulation and the countless hours the three of them had spent in there. He inhaled deeply, but the sting of chemical solvents could not be further from nostalgia.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Sephiroth said, knowing it was a lie as soon as he said it.

Genesis chuckled grimly, recognizing it as one too. “No, but everything else around me has.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does.” 

Genesis walked over to the containment pod and gazed inside as Sephiroth forced himself to look away. He didn’t want to know who was in there, who that might have been once upon a time. Was it one of the missing Seconds or Thirds that had disappeared at the same time as Genesis? Stoikovich, Tranh, Abrahams, Saleem—too many names for even Sephiroth to remember them all. 

“What do you want?”

Genesis smirked, wheeling about in a flurry of black feathers. “I want the ‘gift of the goddess,’” he sneered, emphasizing that final word with derision. 

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes, but ignored Genesis’ veiled attempt at an insult. “What do I possibly have to give to you?”

“I’m killing Hojo tonight.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Anything, as long as you aren’t in Sector 0,” replied Genesis lightly. “Go play dress-up at your little brothel in Wall Market for all I care.”

Sephiroth bristled, wanting to retort that his performances were not mere dress-up, but he refrained, refusing to rise to Genesis’ bait. “Is that what this attack is,” Sephiroth asked instead, “your revenge on the company? Hollander’s revenge?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Genesis paused, appraising him. Sephiroth met his stare, trying to divine what his friend’s intentions were beneath that icy, azure gaze. 

“Go back home and do more reading,” Genesis finally said with a smirk. “You never know what surprises you’ll find in the Shinra archives.”

Sephiroth’s brows knit with frustration. “Just tell me.”

“And what would be the fun in that?”

Sephiroth stood still as Genesis circled him, eyes raking up and down his body, assessing him, and his every reaction. Sephiroth glared back. “Why Hojo?”

“Why not Hojo?” Genesis retorted. “Have you forgotten everything he’s done to you?”

No, Sephiroth hadn’t, but he preferred not to think about it. “What’s done is done. I’m not going to let it consume me.” 

Genesis laughed scornfully, his tenor echoing in the metal walls of the chamber. “You’ve always had that fucking noble streak in you,” Genesis said, and Sephiroth heard Genesis wanting to break him of it. “I bet Hojo programmed that into Chadley too.”

Sephiroth suppressed a shudder at the mention of the boy—no, the android. He had first come across Hojo’s new childlike assistant two years ago during his quarterly physical, instantly recognizing the thing’s cropped silver hair and angelic face as his own at twelve years old. It even had his voice, from before he’d hit puberty. Hojo had asked Sephiroth what he’d thought of his newest creation, and Sephiroth, horrified and outraged, had been unable to answer. It wasn’t until his second encounter with Chadley that he noticed the thing’s eyes—a clear, sky blue, with circular pupils. Sephiroth was certain that Hojo had created Chadley to taunt him, which was why it was always present during Sephiroth’s examinations and whenever he was summoned to Hojo’s laboratory. Hojo had always wanted him to grow up a scientist, but Sephiroth abhorred the thought, ever since that first hour he’d spent in Hojo’s presence as a child.

Genesis smirked, satisfied at finally having touched a nerve.

“And what will you do when you finish with Hojo?” Sephiroth continued.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Maybe enough to stick around.”

Genesis stopped pacing, the tip of his sword rising an inch.

“I’m not going to leave HQ open to attack,” Sephiroth said. “Civilians work there too.”

“You sound just like Angeal,” Genesis sniffed. 

“Somebody has to. Where is he?”

Genesis shrugged, as if he hadn’t the faintest clue, but Sephiroth could tell that he did. Was that the reason he wasn’t worried about Hollander being pursued by Zack? Because Angeal was on his side now? Or was there something nastier lurking in the shadowy corridors of the reactor?

“If something happens to Zack—”

“Give it a rest, Sephiroth.”

“He’s—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly started giving a shit,” Genesis hissed. 

“I’ve always—” Sephiroth was interrupted by a laugh from Genesis, an abrupt, explosive bark that ended as quickly as it began. 

“You? Who do you think it was that taught Zack?” Genesis spat, venomously. “Who looked after the Seconds and Thirds and spent hours with them in the training rooms? Who mentored Kunsel? Or Luxiere? Do you even remember who carried out the assessments on Gongsun and Okope?” It was rare for Genesis to have such an outburst, his usual manner more that of sneers, hidden barbs and oblique insults.

But Genesis was right. When had Sephiroth truly taken the time with any of the SOLDIERs? Was there even one of them he could think of as his own successor, in the same way that Angeal had mentored Zack Fair, or Genesis had guided Anton Luxiere. Even Kunsel...Sephiroth had only known him by face since he’d started becoming useful to him. There were always other things Sephiroth had had to do that the other SOLDIERs didn’t—all the media interviews scheduled by Public Relations, strategy meetings during the war with Heidegger and the other generals in the army, having to manage Shinra expectations with Lazard. All that left him with hardly any time to look after the rest of SOLDIER, not to mention time to himself, and when he did find a moment, he snuck off to the Honeybee Inn instead, needing that rare self-indulgence of being Argenta Rhodea for a night, of being free from the weight of the Silver General, SOLDIER, and Shinra. No matter how he could try to explain that he had expectations and duties, the fact of the matter was that he had left the work of running SOLDIER to Genesis and Angeal, counting on them to shoulder the responsibility. In the end, despite all efforts, whose name was splashed across the headlines?

“Hmph,” Genesis snorted. 

Sephiroth’s brow furrowed. His friends had given so much of their lives to Shinra, and received so little in return. There had to be something he could do. “Call off your army,” he began.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Genesis snarled.

“Call off your army,” Sephiroth repeated, “and I’ll be somewhere else when you come for Hojo.” He was loath to make this deal with Genesis, but he had seen the carnage in Sector 8. He had saved a small unit of recruits on Floral Street from Genesis’ clones and Sweepers, and if he closed his eyes he could still see the despair written on their faces when they thought they would die. If this exchange made Genesis pull back his forces, it was one that Sephiroth was willing to make.

‘“Where elsewhere?” Genesis asked.

“Evacuating HQ.”

Genesis smirked. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to go and dance at your little show.”

“Maybe I’ve started giving a shit.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Sephiroth knew he ought to be offended at what Genesis was trying to insinuate, but he was damned tired of being on opposite sides of this game. Genesis leapt into the air, far higher than Sephiroth remembered him being able to jump, his single black wing pumping to carry him upward into the criss-cross of platforms, ventilation shafts, and metal pipes. That was as much of an answer as he was going to get.

He stared for a long time after his friend disappeared, a small swirl of sable feathers floating in his wake. Sephiroth snatched one out of the air, a long flight feather, reflecting opalescence in the harsh light of the laboratory, a myriad of blues, greens, and yellows,  
not a true black. He brushed the edge of it across his cheek, and it was soft and strangely beautiful, despite its origins. Sephiroth put it in his pocket, convincing himself that he was going to send it somewhere for analysis, even though the Shinra scientists would fight for every scrap, every atom of it, and tear it to pieces in their greed to figure out what it was made of and how it imbued Genesis with the ability of flight. 

When he emerged from Mako Reactor 5 again, Zack Fair was nowhere to be found. His phone received a whole slew of communications, ending with the confirmation that the attack on Sector 8 was contained, and that the infiltrators had seemingly ordered a retreat. A helicopter transported him back to Shinra headquarters, where he was quickly rushed to a war table with Heidegger and the heads of Midgar security. Sephiroth sat quietly, wondering where Zack was, as he listened to the arguments at the table and counted down the hours to Genesis’ second attack.

* * *

If Specialist Fernandez hadn’t been looking out for them, Cloud was convinced that none of the recruits in Sector 8 would have made it back to base. The calm organization of their training camp was almost unreal amidst the chaos of the city earlier that same day. Here, there was structure, a schedule, people with duties they performed well in a regular and regimented manner, even though there were five fewer people in the mess hall for dinner than there had been in the morning. It was as noisy as it ever was, perhaps because they all felt they needed to make up for their five missing members.

A small crowd gathered around Aleksandr, Giselle, and Cloud, asking them to recount their heroics and their encounter with Sephiroth—the Silver General!—but Cloud couldn’t put into words everything he had seen, how Sephiroth moved like a frictionless fluid, how much power was in every strike of his sword, how vengeful and terrible he’d seemed when he left them to take on the rest of the attackers in their city. He could hardly believe that was the same person who had taken the Honeybee Inn’s stage in a flowing white dress and seduced the audience with her beauty.

“He covered the entire street with that barrier. No, it was the entire block,” said Aleksandr.

“Wow,” the assembled crowd of recruits breathed.

“He’s really as powerful as they say, huh?”

“Bad. Ass.”

It took a while for the crowd to thin. Everybody wanted to talk about Sephiroth, and the action they’d seen themselves. The Shinra News Network was still broadcasting non-stop, the channel projected onto the wall of the lounge, the newscaster’s voice droning on as the same pieces of footage and text on the chyron ran on repeat—all conveying the message of Shinra’s ultimate triumph over the Wutai resistance. There were faraway helicopter shots of Sephiroth battling in Sector 8, the video fuzzy from being zoomed in so much, but from it Cloud could still see the graceful arc of the Masamune. How many did Sephiroth save today? It was easier to watch the same clips, listen to the same talking points, than think about the desperation and fear he had felt, how close to death he might have been had the Silver General not come to his rescue. Again. 

A warning bell signaled imminent lights out, a sign that all recruits should get to their barracks and wash up if they hadn’t already, but Cloud sat numbly, still watching Sephiroth on TV, a thin sliver of silver and black surrounded by the menacing gleam of metal and a sea of violet-colored armor.

“You going to sleep on the couch?”

Cloud turned at the touch on his shoulder. It was Roche, who’d lost Hart and Russo that day. He didn’t know the details, and Roche hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Cloud knew he ought to ask, better to have it out than bottled up, but there was a more selfish, pressing thought he needed to voice. 

“I know who Argenta Rhodea is,” he said quietly. 

“What?” Roche blinked with surprise.

“I know who Argenta is.” 

The news finally switched from scenes of Sector 8 to a panel of experts discussing the possibilities of the Wutai resistance’s motives, and what they had to gain from such an attack on the city.

“Do you remember what she said to us in Wall Market?”

“Cloud, we gotta go to bed.” 

“Just tell me what you remember.”

“We’ll be brushing our teeth in the dark,” Roche protested.

“Please, Roche.”

Roche let out an impatient huff. “I dunno, it was, ‘You should go, more are coming’ or something.”

“Close, but—”

Roche dragged Cloud to his feet roughly, cutting him off. “Okay, buddy, we’re going to bed, and you can tell me on the way there.”

Cloud struggled, and Roche let him go, but not before swinging him around and physically starting to shove him toward the barracks. Cloud let Roche handle him, because as long as he walked, Roche was letting him talk.

“Sephiroth said the exact same thing to me today.”

“He talked to you?”

Cloud nodded. “The same thing, Roche. He said the exact same thing to me. It’s him, I’d know that voice anywhere.”

Roche stopped, and looked askance at Cloud. “Look, man, I’m not sure if…”

“I’m certain.”

Roche remained quiet.

“You don’t believe me,” Cloud said suddenly, stung by his friend’s silence. 

Roche regarded him, skeptical. “I don’t think six words proves anything either way.”

“But it is him! She sounds just like him!” 

“...Sephiroth is the Silver General. Dude, why would he, of all people, dress up in women’s clothing and prance around tables in Wall Market?”

“It’s not dressing up!” Cloud exclaimed, indignant. “It’s—”

Roche sighed, and put a hand on Cloud’s shoulder. “I don’t want to argue about this. I just want to brush my teeth and go to bed, and have this day be done and over with.”

Cloud scowled. He wanted to argue further, but he could see how tired his friend was, and how much worse Roche’s day had been than his. “Fine,” Cloud said simply. He pushed past Roche and went into the bathrooms, stripped quickly, and turned on the shower. 

He and Roche said nothing more to each other as they went to their separate bunks and tossed themselves onto the mattresses, just as the lights in the barracks winked out.


	10. Face to Face

The agenda moved onto communications, and Sephiroth surreptitiously glanced at the clock on the wall. Heidegger reiterated the talking points for Public Relations, that the attack had been carried out by Wutai resistance elements, that the suborned Shinra autonomous sentinels had been hacked via a previously unknown software vulnerability—at least that bit was true. The citizens of Midgar were not to worry, because the hack required someone to be physically present to do the reprogramming, and Shinra already had a patch. An argument broke out between the Head of Public Relations and the President’s Chief of Operations about when best to time the release of the latter messages, whether it was better tonight when the news was still rolling, or to wait until the morning when most of the residents would be awake and tuning in again. Wordlessly, Sephiroth rose from his seat and made for the door. 

“General Sephiroth?” Heidegger said, mouth curving slightly in a frown.

Sephiroth turned. “My apologies,” he announced to the room, “but I have other urgent business to which I must attend.”

“What business?” 

Sephiroth pretended not to hear as the door shut behind him. He strode down the corridors of the 64th floor, taking the long way to the stairs to avoid the entrance to Hojo’s laboratory, and took one flight of stairs down to the relaxation floor. 

It was nearing three o’clock in the morning, and the café was still open, though most of the company’s sensible employees had already gone home. Those who were left were still reeling from today’s—no, yesterday’s—attack whilst trying to secure the city and investigate the origin of the incursion. 

Sephiroth bought himself a coffee. He was about to carry it into the elevators so he could enjoy it in the peace and comfort of his own office, free of the squabbling executive team, when he noticed Kunsel sitting by himself at a small table in the atrium. He approached, and Kunsel waved at him to take a seat.

“You’re still on shift?”

“Heightened alert,” Kunsel replied wryly.

Sephiroth nodded. “Any casualties today?” He ought to know the answer, but he hadn’t had time yet to read the multitude of updates and reports he’d been inundated with. 

“Not from SOLDIER.”

Not from those that were left, Kunsel had meant. Out of the ones that Genesis had taken with him, Sephiroth wondered how many more remained. Perhaps he could reconstruct the numbers with some help, but he was not sure he wanted to know, and the information would do him no good, except as another weight on his shoulders.

“Have you seen Zack around?”

Kunsel shook his head. “I thought he was with you.”

“We split up. I sent him after Hollander, who’s been hiding out in Mako Reactor 5 all this time,” Sephiroth said, worried now that Kunsel hadn’t seen Zack either. Sephiroth had no choice but to trust that Zack Fair, SOLDIER First Class, would complete his assignment and return. 

Kunsel looked thoughtful. The possibility of hiding a laboratory in a mako reactor had never occurred to him, and perhaps he was considering if other similar, creative places to hide the necessary equipment and power drain, would aid the hunt for Genesis’ base of operations. 

“Sit rep,” Sephiroth said when Kunsel sighed, too tired to summon any creativity in the middle of the night. 

“There’s a small squadron of Thirds patrolling Sector 8 with the PSD, but the worst is over. I hope, anyway.”

Sephiroth took a sip of his coffee, his expression impassive. Kunsel was shooting him a strange look when the lights suddenly went red, and the alarm klaxons went off for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Kunsel closed his eyes for a weary second. “Aw, shit, I shouldn’t have said anything,” he grumbled. 

They both rose, Sephiroth’s coffee half unfinished. Genesis had a knack for bad timing. “Go to meeting room Alpha,” Sephiroth ordered Kunsel. “Secure the executives. I’ll protect the employees in the lower floors.”

Kunsel nodded. 

Sephiroth reached for his phone, dialing Zack’s number as he made for the stairwell. To his relief, Zack Fair actually answered. 

“On my way,” he said. Sephiroth wondered where he’d been all this time, but pushed that concern further down his list of priorities.

The SOLDIERs left on duty in the building were already arming themselves when Sephiroth returned to the 49th floor. He led them to oversee the evacuation of the employees, particularly those in Urban Planning, who were working overtime to assess and repair the damage done to the city. Genesis had sent fewer men in this wave than he had sent in yesterday morning’s attack, but it was still formidable enough of a force to draw out the bulk of the security detail. 

Sephiroth sent the SOLDIERs ahead of him and began his sweep of level 39, intending to empty each floor and make his way downward, when in a deserted corridor, he spotted Zack Fair. Behind him strode Angeal Hewley, still wearing the black uniform of a SOLDIER First Class. Sephiroth’s breath caught. It had been six months, since he’d last seen his friend. Sephiroth had sent a hundred unanswered messages, and here was Angeal, walking the Shinra halls as if he’d never left, the Buster Sword on his back and the standard issue SOLDIER broadsword gripped tightly in his right hand. Angeal looked no different than when they’d last parted ways, save for the single wing which sprouted from his back. Angeal tucked it tightly to his body to navigate the hallway, but Sephiroth was sure its span was as large as Genesis’. It too was faintly iridescent, each feather reflecting a multitude of colors, even in the harsh light that illuminated them.

Sephiroth exhaled, tightly controlling the air rattling from his lungs, tempering the host of emotions that flooded him at the sight of his friend. He had too many questions, he didn’t know which to ask first. Angeal spoke instead. 

“Sephiroth.” Angeal’s voice was deep, a warm and welcome balm to Sephiroth’s shock. Angeal looked him up and down. “Have you lost weight?”

Sephiroth drew another breath—Angeal had no right to sound like he cared, even if he did. “No thanks to you,” Sephiroth retorted automatically. It was something he would have said in the old days as a joke, whenever Angeal showed him concern, and he would have to use humor to shield himself from the swell of unrequited feelings for his friend. 

He’d fallen in love with Angeal almost a decade ago when they had been cadets. Sephiroth had been shy and awkward at that age, and Angeal strong and confident. Sephiroth had desperately wanted some of Angeal’s charm and charisma for himself, and to be the focus of it. Even after becoming friends, it had taken a few years for him to work up the courage to confess to Angeal, only to be let down, again and again. Sephiroth’s love for him had finally begun to wane with time, and in the past few months, he’d dwelled instead on the hurt and outrage from Angeal’s abrupt departure. Sephiroth thought he had finally put Angeal behind him, but the feelings surged again with the man himself, in flesh and feathers, returned. Sephiroth’s earlier wrath at finding Angeal’s genetic signature melded with a sahagin, fled. Little mattered, so long as he was here.

Angeal cocked a sideways smile, gently apologetic. 

“Genesis is after Hojo. Hollander’s orders, probably,” he continued, when Sephiroth’s silence stretched on another second. His expression turned somber.

“Then he’ll be targeting the upper floors,” Zack supplied.

Belatedly, Sephiroth realized there was a story to Zack and Angeal appearing together. He promised himself he’d get it out of the both of them later, since he was not going to let Angeal go again, not without an explanation. Zack looked to him for instructions, as if expecting him to volunteer to protect the head of the Science Department. 

“I made a deal with Genesis in Mako Reactor 5,” Sephiroth said quietly. “He’d call off the attack on the city, and I’d evacuate the building while he targeted Hojo.”

Zack’s eyes widened. “But that’s giving Hollander exactly what he wants!” he protested. 

Sephiroth regarded Zack, who was dismayed by the perceived disloyalty. Sephiroth allowed a slow smile to creep onto his features. “I didn’t make any promises about you, though,” he said. 

Realization dawned on Zack. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh! Okay!” He nodded curtly to them both. “I’ll go then.” He turned and headed down the hall, eager for action as he drew his sword. 

Sephiroth and Angeal watched him go.

“Genesis has commandeered some sentinels outside, they’re clustering on the highway. I’ll secure us an evac route,” Angeal said, when Zack had turned the corner. There was no time for heartfelt reunions when the intruder klaxons were going off, but Angeal placed a hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder. 

Sephiroth looked down at it, and then back up at his friend. “I’ll go with you.”

Angeal opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, Sephiroth clapped his hand on Angeal’s shoulder as well. It was not a greeting, as Angeal’s had been, but a fiercely possessive gesture, born of months of betrayal and grievance.

“It’s good to see you too,” Angeal said kindly, his expression softening, maintaining the pretense that Sephiroth’s hand was a simple hello. 

What little remained of the ire Sephiroth harbored during the period of Angeal’s disappearance dissolved through his fingers. Angeal didn’t deserve to be forgiven so easily, but Sephiroth’s fondness—strong and deeply engraved—was not to be denied, even though Angeal did not reciprocate. Angeal Hewley was his friend, and that would always have to be enough for him. 

They went into the stairwell, the quickest and safest route down to ground level. It was going to be a long trip down, but at least they weren’t going up, Sephiroth thought dryly, as they descended as quickly as they could. 

“I can’t believe Genesis has us on another caper,” said Angeal wistfully. He said it like it was still a year ago, when they would still sometimes play pranks on one another in one of their encampments in Wutai.

“I guess some things never change.”

Angeal paused on a landing and turned to regard him with a good-natured smile. If he ignored the wing, Sephiroth could pretend that nothing had happened in the past six months between Angeal and him, that this was an ordinary drill or a simulated mission they were doing together, just for the heck of it.

Angeal let him pretend a little bit longer, but when they reached the landing for the 30th floor, Sephiroth discerned the ominous droning of a swarm of Slug-Rays and the muffled sounds of screams through the door. He pressed his lips into a grim line, and continued toward the next level, but Angeal stopped. 

“They need you,” he said, cocking his head at the door.

“Qvist and a few of the Thirds should be there by now,” Sephiroth replied, pausing halfway down the flight.

“They’ll be spread pretty thin, and Qvist isn’t very good at controlling her Thunder spells.” 

“They’ll hold out.”

“Sephiroth,” Angeal warned. His gaze bored into Sephiroth, and Sephiroth could already imagine the lecture Angeal was about to launch into. What kind of man was he, if he could walk past these sounds blithely, without stopping to help? What example was he setting for the rest of SOLDIER, if he was ready to abandon the people he had promised to protect? Sephiroth wasn’t needed to secure the evacuation route, Angeal could do that by himself. 

Sephiroth wanted to retort that this was why he needed Angeal, because he gave into his own selfish impulses too readily, and SOLDIER needed Angeal, because Sephiroth couldn’t give a convincing speech about dreams, hope, and honor. He hadn’t even remembered that Qvist had trouble with Thunder magic, and Angeal had. But his protest would only come out sounding childish and accusatory. 

“If you disappear again, I will never forgive you.”

Angeal smiled tightly. “Shinra will never take me back.” 

“Stay in the city, at least. We can figure something out.” If Angeal, Zack, and he put their heads together, nothing felt impossible. 

A long silence passed between them. “Okay,” acquiesced Angeal, with great reluctance. “Maybe a little while.”

That Angeal had agreed to stay, no matter how hesitant, was all that Sephiroth heard. “Meet me at the Honeybee tonight,” he said suddenly.

“Tonight?”

“It’s the safest place for us to meet.” The private rooms at the Honeybee Inn were one of the few places in Midgar where Sephiroth could guarantee no Shinra surveillance, and no one would think to look for either Angeal or him there. “I’ll leave you a ticket at the front.”

Angeal chuckled, amused. He considered it for a moment. “Only someone like you would get away with giving such short notice headlining a show,” he said wryly.

Sephiroth decided he’d take that as a compliment. “The prerogatives of royalty,” he replied airily, as he climbed the steps back up. The hum of the Slug-Rays grew louder. He put his hand on the door handle, but paused.

“Go on,” Angeal urged. “I can fly the rest of the way.”

He leapt over the edges of the railing, so suddenly that Sephiroth rushed to the edge, instinctively alarmed. Angeal glided surprisingly easily in the confined space surrounding the stairs, until he was but a tiny figure at the very bottom. A single feather was left on the landing, and Sephiroth bent down to pick it up, marveling at how firm it held as he ran his gloved fingers along its spine.

He pocketed the souvenir, opened the door, and went into the fray.

* * *

Cloud hadn’t known what to expect once he was done with training camp, but he’d figured there would be more ceremony. He assembled with the rest of the recruits in the yard one last time the morning following the attack on Sector 8, and were addressed in a short, somber speech by Sergeant Stanford about the pride of the PSD and the sacrifices they would have to make in the line of duty. Cloud had the impression that a more senior officer usually gave the graduation speech, but given the second-wave assault on the Shinra Company headquarters in the early hours of the morning, it was understandable that none could be spared. Once Cloud lined up to receive his certificate, handed to him by an irate looking Sergeant Emery, the ceremony was finished. 

All the recruits who had taken part in the fighting in Sectors 8, 7, and 1 the previous day had passed with a special commendation for their bravery, and the others who had assisted with enforcing the lockdown and with operations had their efforts noted in their records. Ordinarily, they would receive their new assignments immediately, but instead they were all placed temporarily in the 18th regiment, Midgar’s police and security force, in the event the attacks escalated. As freshly graduated privates, they should have been allowed to go home if they lived in Midgar, or otherwise transferred to their new barracks, but for the interim, they were instructed to remain in the training camp on high alert. 

The late morning news replayed helicopter and drone footage of the Shinra building, several pillars of smoke rising from broken windows and gaping wounds in its walls, exposing sparkling wires, ripped piping and crumbling insulation, before swinging to focus on the small figures embattled on the segments of the ring road leading to headquarters. Miraculously, there had been no casualties, all thanks to General Sephiroth, who had personally led the evacuation efforts of the brave Shinra employees working through the night to protect the city. 

Cloud sat in the lounge with Roche, Giselle, Tomas, Aleksandr, and a whole host of their fellow graduates, glued to the coverage on the Shinra News Network. The news anchor finished her summary of the night’s events, and then announced her guest of the hour, General Heidegger, the head of Shinra Public Security. Heidegger used his time on the program to reassure the viewers that Shinra was ready to respond to further incursions into the city, and were prepared to put a swift stop to the activities of the Wutai resistance. Their foes had managed to exploit a hitherto unforeseen weakness in the programing of Shinra’s automated sentinel systems, but the dedicated programmers and security analysts of Public Security and Research & Development had worked all night to patch the security flaws and the software update had been rolled out already to all Shinra’s autonomous units. Midgar would remain resilient, Heidegger pledged. 

Pride swelled within Cloud to see the head of his department on the television—starting today, he was an employee of the company, Private Cloud Strife of the Shinra Public Security Division. He had helped defend the city yesterday, and was ready to serve again. He looked at the faces of his fellow privates as they too watched Heidegger’s interview, a similar pride reflected on their features. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and absently Cloud reached for it. He flipped it open, his eyes widening as he read the subject of the message. 

“What is it?” Roche asked, turning away from the screen in the lounge. 

Cloud showed Roche his phone. 

**Subject:** [Argenta’s Ardents] [ALERT] Performance Tonight

“Hell of a time to pick for a performance,” Roche remarked. He glanced at Cloud to gauge his reaction. With the graduation ceremony and then immediately being put on alert, neither of them had mentioned the subject of Argenta Rhodea. The air between them was still a little frosty, a lingering effect of the friction from the night before.

“You goin’?”

Cloud shook his head. The city was currently secure, but that could change on a gil. What the hell was Sephiroth doing, going to the Honeybee Inn at a time like this?

Roche was still looking at him, his expression concerned, so Cloud put his phone away, before the rest of his group started asking awkward questions he didn’t want to answer. Giselle and Tomas shared a glance, but said nothing. Instead, they both stared at Cloud as if they wanted him to do something. Cloud scowled at them, until Roche caught the three of them exchanging looks, and wondered aloud what was going on. 

“Nothing,” all three of them said at once.

Roche harrumphed, folded his arms across his chest, and turned back to the news, sullen. This kind of anxious downtime, the tension of another possible attack, was not how passing training was supposed to go. Eventually, the news started repeating itself and Cloud left the room to relieve himself. 

Giselle was leaning against the wall, waiting for him, next to the door to the men’s room. Cloud had no idea how she’d managed to make it there before him. “Why are you fighting with Roche?” she asked, pulling him aside into an adjacent corridor. “Now of all times.”

“I’m not fighting with him.”

“Something happened, obviously.”

Cloud made a moue. “Nothing happened,” he insisted. How was he supposed to say that he was still irked at Roche for not believing him about Argenta? His certainty about her identity was beginning to waver now—Sephiroth wasn’t the type of man to shirk his responsibility to the city when there was still a chance the Wutai resistance would make further attempts on Midgar. 

“If nothing happened,” Giselle continued, “then maybe help him out. He needs some comfort right now, since Nousha Hart and Mattini Russo didn’t make it yesterday.” 

Giselle and Tomas had been friends with Roche for longer than Cloud had. “Why is it all up to me to comfort him?” He wasn’t any good at this kind of stuff. 

Giselle’s face twisted in fury. “Because you’re his boyfriend!” she snapped.

Cloud took a step back. “I...I’m not his boyfriend,” he stammered, after a couple of abortive attempts at a response. 

Giselle blinked, bewildered. “You’re not?” 

“No,” replied Cloud, equally confused. 

Slowly, Giselle’s mouth opened, and she clapped her hand over it. “Oh, shit. You know what, forget I said anything!” 

She turned and fled back down the hall, and Cloud watched her go, frozen in place, his trip to the bathroom forgotten for the meantime. He thought back to all the times that Roche had circled back to hang out with him in the lunch line, when Roche had sneaked him out of the compound so he could talk to Kunsel, how gently Roche had rubbed his back when he’d gotten himself drunk in Wall Market. 

Roche liked him.

* * *

If it hadn’t been for the clock on the wall, Zack would have had no idea what time it was. He started dumbly at the food in front of him, a bowl of stew still steaming on his tray. He had no memory of how he’d gotten it. It seemed as if he’d just jumped from standing in line to sitting here at the table in the SOLDIER mess. When was the last time he’d gotten some sleep? The day before yesterday, was it? Zack tried to count how many hours he’d been awake, but even with the aid of his fingers, he was unable to do the arithmetic, and kept on having to start over.

He looked up to where Howard Kunsel, Anton Luxiere, and Sierra Qvist, were staring at him, concern written all over their features. He hadn’t touched his dinner yet, and he didn't know how long they’d been sitting there. Oh right, not long, because his food was still steaming. 

“I’m not sure if he’s awake or sleepwalking,” Luxiere whispered out of the corner of his mouth while he regarded Zack warily. 

“Not sure there’s a difference,” Qvist replied. She had dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze was still alert. She glanced down to where Zack’s fingers were still twitching on the table top. “Are you counting how many hours you’ve been awake?”

Zack nodded. 

“Thirty-six hours,” Kunsel said. 

How did Kunsel know that? Oh yeah, they’d seen each other at breakfast. That sounded about right, give or take how long he’d been out for when Angeal had knocked him into Aerith’s church in the Sector 5 slums. Speaking of which, he ought to ask whether anybody had any news about Angeal, but he would rather think about Aerith instead. The feelings imagining her face gave him were much less complicated than when he pictured his erstwhile mentor. And speaking of Angeal, where was Sephiroth?

“He left a few hours ago,” supplied Luxiere.

“What?”

“Sephiroth left a few hours ago. He’s long gone,” Luxiere said. “You asked?”

Had he? Zack rested his forehead in his hands, his elbows propped up on the table. Stupid Lazard had forgotten to take sleep into account when assigning him a shift for the building’s alert status. 

Qvist sniggered. “I know, but maybe try not to insult our director out loud?” 

Fucking hell. 

“Stop trying to think and just eat,” Kunsel suggested sensibly, and that was the best idea that Zack had heard since the last time he’d heard a good idea which was...oh, he wasn’t going to bother counting.

* * *

The first strains of the music had already started when Argenta Rhodea appeared on stage. The theatre was dark, the signature patterns of the Honeybee Inn dimmed so that all eyes in the audience were focused on her, illuminated by a single brilliant spotlight. Her blonde hair spilled past her shoulders in loose, elegant waves, the end of her locks framing the top of her corset, cinched tightly around her waist, accentuating her curves. Layers of crimson lace cascaded from her waist and onto the floor in the shape of a sumptuous ball gown, the shifting patterns of transparency as she moved offering a promising peek at her skin, shadowing the space between her thighs, and hinting at the contours of her legs. More lace, decorated with glittering sequins and rhinestones, trailed behind her as she stepped to the center of the stage, moving with the placid serenity of royalty. She needed no other magic than the song to enchant the audience, drawing on the power of the melody and the lyrics, and projecting them outward, embodying the soul of the music, radiating determination, defiance. 

Argenta cast her eyes to Andrea’s private box. Her mother sometimes sat there himself if he wasn’t watching from backstage, but tonight he was allowing a guest to use it. Argenta’s guest, specifically. She had only asked to use it once before, the first and only time she had performed for Genesis and Angeal, four years ago. She had asked for it again tonight, but it was empty. Argenta turned back to the audience and continued her song, eyeing a few of the frontmost tables that would seem the most fun to dance for during her second, more energetic number. 

The night passed like it always did when she was at the Honeybee—three performances, three enthusiastic rounds of applause. A few admirers approached her on the stage after her final song, leaving her small bouquets of real flowers, rare in Midgar, and a few even more expensive gifts, in hopes that she would spend some time with them after the end of the show. She never did. There was no doubt that she would be paid handsomely for her time if she took up the offers, but wealth was not the reason Argenta Rhodea performed at the Honeybee Inn. 

Backstage, she changed from the tight leotard she wore for her final number and into a dress she could spend the rest of the night in, a simple ivory-colored gown of draped silk that fell from one shoulder in a timeless style, evocative of ancient goddesses who were only found now in the form of marble sculpture. It was pretty and not too confining. There was a certain amount of discomfort that Argenta had to tolerate for her drag—the tightness of her tuck, the tautness of the corset, and the soreness of her feet in her stilettos—but all these she could endure as she took a seat in Andrea’s box to watch over the revelry of the remainder of the night. Slowly, the Honeybee’s guests filed out of the chamber, retreating to the private rooms where the entertainments would continue in the form of the Honeybee’s special services. 

Argenta stayed in her seat, even when the only sound left in the theatre was the sound of her fan snapping shut. She’d been using it to keep cool, but as the sole remaining occupant, the temperature began to drop as the air circulation system finally caught up. It had been years since she had last seen the theatre empty. Even on the rare occasions when she came during the afternoon to rehearse a new routine, it was packed with other dancers, other queens, and Andrea shouting instructions. She had only joined in on the Honeybee’s post-show festivities once, when she’d stayed with Genesis and Angeal, and they’d drunk and danced until the sun came up, and snuck with her back up to the plate. She had hoped to wake up later that day in Angeal’s bed, the massive amount of alcohol she’d consumed lowering her inhibitions enough to offer him a fuck with her still in drag, but Angeal had gently declined, and instead she’d woken up in her own bed, alone. That was the day she had resolved to stop pining for a man she could never have.

“Which one are you waiting for?”

Argenta looked up, pulled from her reverie by the sound of Andrea’s voice behind her. “Care for a guess?” she asked lightly, to keep the bitterness of Angeal’s broken promise from her voice. She knew that Zack had last seen him pursuing Genesis, but that had been almost twenty-four hours ago. She couldn’t help but to imagine the worst—Angeal injured, dead, or trapped in one of Hollander’s horrifying glass pods, his lungs slowly filling with liquid mako. Or perhaps the worst was that he’d lied to her about coming tonight, about wanting to stay. 

Andrea took a seat next to her, and reached over to take her hand in his own. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

Argenta drew a breath, closing her eyes and counting down five seconds as she held it. It shuddered on the exhale. She turned her palm upwards, closing her fingers over her mother’s proffered hand, gripping it tightly. Andrea squeezed her back, and shifted closer to her, enough to take her into his arms. 

They sat together in the dimness, facing the darkened stage, cocooned in silence. There were still other patrons elsewhere in the establishment, indulging themselves, but they were nowhere near enough to hear the muted sobs that never made it past the soundproofed double doors of the main auditorium of the Honeybee Inn. 

Eventually, Andrea produced a handkerchief and handed it to Argenta. “Let’s get you cleaned up, doll,” he suggested gently. “The sun’s coming up, and we need to get you home.”

Argenta shook her head. 

“If he comes, I’ll let you know.” Andrea stroked her shoulder. “Besides, when was the last time you got any sleep?”

About two days ago, Argenta realized. She had only gone through worse a few times during the height of the war, in the midst of the toughest and most arduous of their Wutai campaigns. She was only awake now through sheer willpower and a lifetime of SOLDIER conditioning. How could her mother tell?

Andrea smiled. He could tell. “Don’t throw away everything you’ve worked so hard to build for someone who’s going to stand you up.” 

Argenta let Andrea help her to her feet, but only after he promised again to contact her if Angeal Hewley appeared. Leaning some of her weight on her mother, Argenta let Andrea lead her to his dressing room so she could fix her ruined makeup, and finally go home.


	11. Where to Begin Again

Zack Fair sprawled at the edge of the flower bed, gazing up at the light filtering in through the rafters. He’d widened the hole in the roof when Angeal had knocked him all the way from the Sector 5 plate to the slums a week ago, and he hadn’t seen the man since. Were Angeal and Genesis still somewhere in the city, lurking, or had Genesis fled? Zack hoped it was the latter, but he would have liked to know where his old mentor had gone off to, too. Zack had pledged his sword to Angeal’s cause when they’d gone to protect HQ against the second wave, so the least Angeal could do now was to let him know whose side he was on and what he was up to. 

Beside him, Aerith Gainsborough hummed a cheerful tune as she gardened, weeding and watering carefully. Her footsteps were light as she came to settle next to him when she was done, sitting close enough that Zack could reach out and take her hand, or stroke her arm if he wanted to. 

“Is power napping one of those special SOLDIER abilities?”

Zack grinned. “Sure is,” he said, tucking his arms behind his head, mindful of the greenery. “Work hard, nap hard, that’s our motto. It’s the effect of the mako and all.”

“Mm-hmm,” Aerith said skeptically. “Are you sure it’s not just your own, personal motto when you’re skipping work?”

“Hey! I’ve been busy protecting the city this past week, you know. It’s all thanks to me that you and the rest down here are unharmed.”

“Oh,” said Aerith, as if understanding finally dawned. ”So it wasn’t because the attackers didn’t bother coming into the undercity, it was you all along, single-handedly.”

“That could be debated.” Zack furrowed his brows, which only made Aerith’s smile grow wider. “Either way, it’s a good thing I’m down here, keepin’ the streets safe.”

“The slums are safe now, all thanks to you,” Aerith teased. “No more kids down here stealing wallets. Now, if you get your wallet stolen on the plate, you’ll be out of luck without me.”

Zack scowled. It wasn’t his fault he’d gotten his wallet pickpocketed by some brat his first day in the slums, and that it had taken Aerith and him all afternoon and into the evening to finally track it down. He’d learned his lesson. “That was just the once,” Zack sniffed. “I’ve gotten my wallet back myself several times on the plate.”

Zack turned and glanced at her, momentarily robbed of breath while Aerith’s eyes glittered with amusement. He wondered if he ought to tell Aerith that she was even prettier than his own mother. Nah, Zack saved the compliment for later, for a more special time. They were just hanging out now, since he was off duty for the rest of the day, having just turned his account of events into Sephiroth.

“Are you sure that’s something you want to brag about?” Aerith asked.

“What, being able to find my own wallet?”

Aerith snickered. “Losing your wallet so often, dummy.”

“Oh.” Was he being mocked by a seventeen year-old girl? Yes, yes he was. It was a miracle he had any dignity left between Sephiroth’s dry humor and Aerith’s underhanded jibes. “Well, at least I get ‘em back,” Zack grumbled.

“Them? How many wallets do you have to lose?” 

Zack wrinkled his nose. “Too many to count,” he sighed, playing along since there was no chance in hell he’d come up with a smart enough rejoinder. He flopped limply back onto the floorboards, feigning despair.

It was nice to have a break for once, with nothing he had to think about except the hole in the roof and whether he ought to help Aerith patch it. He was no good at carpentry, though. It wasn’t one of those things they taught at SOLDIER. But it was an abandoned church, and maybe Aerith’s flowers needed the extra sunlight and rain that ran off from the plate. Best leave it be, Zack decided. He didn’t need another possible mission hanging over his head during his off time.

Aerith scooted closer to him, and they sat together in companionable silence, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

* * *

Weeks passed without further indecent in Midgar, the threat of the Wutai resistance dissipating as quickly as it had first struck. With the city stepping down from its heightened alert status, Cloud and the new graduates received their assignments. Giselle and Tomas were to stay with the 18th Regiment permanently. The mobile unit which patrolled the highways on motorcycles was within the 18th, so there was hope for the both of them to be promoted from their everyday foot patrol duties once they proved their mettle.

Cloud, Roche, Aleksandr, and a handful of those who had seen action during the attack in Sector 8 and surrounding sectors were assigned to serve as infantry in the massive 3rd Regiment, which supported the varied security needs in Midgar that fell outside of the purview of the 18th Regiment, with everything from mundane tasks such as providing security protection for headquarters to supporting advanced missions for SOLDIER. They were still all housed together in Midgar, the main PSD base was in Sector 3, so it was there that they all moved, unless they wanted to live with family instead. Roche considered seriously moving back in with his family, if only for the food his parents cooked, but in the end opted for the barracks with everybody else, because he didn’t want to be left out of the fun. 

Roche still wasn’t allowed his motorcycle on base, but he hardly seemed to care as both he and Cloud counted down the days until the SOLDIER selection examinations. Their time in the 3rd passed like a blur under Sergeant Feria Tyson, who worked them harder than any of their drill sergeants at training camp. Though they no longer had to sit in classrooms, Cloud found himself with even less time than he’d had as a recruit. His days were packed with guarding the maintenance crews on their daily rounds around the mako reactors, of which Mako Reactor 5 needed extra cleanup and removal for reasons that Cloud wasn’t clear on, and was heavily discouraged from asking. It was dull work, standing around with his rifle at the ready, on the lookout for the rare, aggressive grashtrike. When he returned from his missions for the day, there was barely enough time to get some chow from the general mess and collapse into his bed. As a private, he now had a small single dormitory room—barely large enough for a single bed, a narrow desk, and a tiny sink. The bathrooms and common spaces he shared with other privates on his floor, most of them the new graduates from his training camp. So he didn’t have an opportunity for a candid conversation with Roche until they were headed into Sector 0 for SOLDIER selection. 

They woke up bright and early before reveille so they could catch an early breakfast that actually tasted like something. Genen was waiting for them just outside of the compound with the Del Sol Street Food truck and one plastic table laid out just for them. He served up café con leche, an omelette with large chunks of potato and onion, and an enormous plate of bacon, sausages, and hash. 

“Some good luck breakfast food for my favorite little bro,” Genen grinned, laying out the steaming plates on the table between them. “Oh, and I guess you can have some too, Roche.”

“Thanks,” Roche replied sarcastically, while Cloud flushed bright red at how easily Genen had adopted him into the family, even only for that joke.

It was kind of Genen to feed them both so early, but Cloud supposed that his friend didn’t often get the opportunity to visit home these days. In fact, he hadn’t heard of Roche going back to see his folks at all. The two times Roche had been given clearance to leave the training camp, he’d ended up going with Cloud to Wall Market. 

They wolfed down the meal, easily two to three times the size of what the mess served as standard. When they were finished, Roche went up to give his brother a hug, which even Cloud wasn’t exempt from, at Genen’s insistence. Then they walked to the Sector 3 station, and got on the train. It was still early in the morning and long before peak rush hour, so the train car was still half empty as they headed toward Shinra headquarters.

The tension between them had disappeared shortly after the events in Sector 8, though Roche still hadn’t wanted to talk about what happened to the rest of his unit. Cloud figured he could his friend some slack—Roche might not believe him about General Sephiroth and Argenta Rhodea being the same person, but that wasn’t reason enough to stay mad at his friend. Roche was still as open as ever about listening to him chatter when he had the chance, but for once, Argenta wasn’t the first thing on Cloud’s mind. 

“Hey,” Cloud said, unsure of where to start, but knowing that he needed to get this off of his chest. “I need to talk to you.”

Roche turned away from where he’d been staring out the window. “It better not be about Rufus Shinra,” he quipped. 

“Roche!”

Roche chuckled as Cloud scowled at him. He put his hands up in an apologetic gesture. Cloud elbowed him in the ribs for good measure, before realizing that Roche was flirting with him, and gods, he was flirting back. Cloud withdrew his elbow swiftly, and gripped the edge of his seat with both hands, which served the dual purpose of suppressing the temptation to jab more at Roche and protecting his own torso from retaliation. 

“Giselle mentioned something to me a few weeks ago,” Cloud began. He grimaced internally. This was coming out all wrong. He’d made up his mind to talk to Roche about it at the first real opportunity, but he was starting to doubt himself. Was this the right time?

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

Cloud’s eyes darted about the car, suddenly conscious of its other occupants. There was a group of four girls on their way home from the bars, probably having spent the whole night out, while there were others in various work uniforms going into work early. There was a young man sitting two rows away that Cloud was also sure was going in for SOLDIER selection, based on the mean look he had. 

“Um…” Cloud hesitated. Should he tell Roche what Giselle had said? What if she’d been wrong, what if he’d actually been misreading Roche this entire time? If Roche really liked him, wouldn’t he have said something by now? The silence dragged on a few seconds too long, so Cloud bought himself another few seconds with another, “Um...”

“Cloud?”

Cloud cringed. Roche lent closer to him. “Yeah?”

“Do you like me?”

Cloud’s eyes widened, and he froze stock still, feeling himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears. 

Roche relaxed back into his seat with a chuckle. “It’s okay, I like you too.”

Cloud sat, stunned by how easily Roche had confessed his feelings, like he was talking about his favorite motorcycle or his favorite dish his brother cooked. Cloud had assumed that dragging this out of Roche would have been harder. 

“I was actually going to ask you on a date tomorrow, after we finish SOLDIER selection. So you don’t have to say anything now if you don’t want to.” 

Cloud regarded his friend, normally so brash and confident, and for the first time in Roche’s life, he looked a little shy. 

Cloud hadn’t made a decision on how he’d answer Roche regarding his feelings. They were friends, sure. He liked being around Roche and hanging out with him, but was that enough? Surely, people had gone out on dates on less. It wasn’t as if Roche was asking him to commit. 

“Then I’ll give you my answer after we both get into SOLDIER. That is, if you think you can make it in,” Cloud said archly.

“Hey! I was gonna ask after we finished the exams. Now you’ve gone and pushed the date out!”

Cloud smirked. “I’m not going on a date with some loser who’s not gonna make it in. A girl’s gotta have some standards.”

“A what?”

“What?”

Roche cocked an eyebrow upward. “What did you just say?”

“A guy’s got to have some standards?” Cloud blinked. “Dude, are you going deaf or something?”

Roche snickered. “I swear you just said ‘gurl.’ Like, the gay ‘guuurl.’”

“I did not!”

“You totally did, though.”

“I totally did not!”

Roche grinned wide and didn’t respond, so Cloud gave him a light shove. They were definitely drawing attention to themselves, so Cloud folded his arms across his chest to avoid any further handsiness that might get misinterpreted by their inadvertent audience. 

“Either way, I’ve got standards, so if you want a date, you’re going to have to pass.”

“You got it,” Roche said with a smile that was wide enough to show teeth. 

The train pulled into Sector 0, and together they got off and made their way to the towering building that was the Shinra Company’s headquarters as part of the few who thought they had the chops to be accepted into the elite special military unit known only as SOLDIER.

* * *

The Corporate Archives were only one floor below the relaxation floor, but some insistent librarian had managed to convince the architects to spare no expense on soundproofing during its construction. None of the cacophony of the canteen upstairs bled down into the quiet confines of the richly carpeted rotunda. This was one of the few places of serenity in the entire building, for the archives themselves were of little interest to an ordinary employee, nor the majority in Shinra’s research divisions. Sephiroth knew that Mayor Domino had an office somewhere on this floor, though he only ever saw the man from afar. Aside from the odd robot trundling through the stacks shelving a tome, the library was as empty as he remembered it. 

The smell of leather and worn paper was still the same as it was twenty years ago, and transported Sephiroth back to his childhood. He used to tuck himself away in a shadowy alcove whenever he wanted to avoid a trip upstairs to Hojo’s laboratory. Sometimes he would spend hours here, reading whatever was buried in the darkest, most forgotten corners of the archives—decades old textbooks on the wonders of the cosmos, old myths and folktales gathered from far flung villages, early blueprints of the revolver that had made the old Shinra family wealthy and powerful.

Sephiroth knew all the secret nooks and crannies, designed by some enterprising and prescient archivist who had foreseen the company’s penchant for erasing and rewriting its own history. Though most of the company records were now digitized—the impressive rotunda mainly a show for the building’s tourists—a dwindling handful remained stored here for posterity, if only the right person knew where to look. But true to the floor’s name, the backup data servers and digital archives were stored here as well. 

Sephiroth made his way up the southern stairway to the first landing, the only sound that followed him the creak of his leather coat. Amongst the opulent wood paneling and the thick velvet carpeting, an entrance was concealed, its edges aligned perfectly with the beveling. Even the keycard reader was cleverly disguised as part of the motifs carved into the wood. The door opened with a muted breath of air, sinking into the wall a few feet before swinging aside. 

The interior of the data center was dim and modern, every inch the opposite of the romantic decor evoked by the library. All of Shinra’s data was stored here in duplicate and triplicate, including the company’s classified files. Racks upon racks of supercooled servers lined both sides of numerous narrow aisles, and cables twisted together, as thick as his leg, wound across every inch of the floor, requiring raised steel panels for him to traverse the room. They shuddered underfoot as he made his way deeper, the red and green lights of the servers blinking busily and providing most of the room’s light. Even Sephiroth, with his enhanced SOLDIER sight, would have to squint to spot an enemy lying in wait for him amongst the shelves. What few lights there were overhead, were designed to give off little heat, and therefore only emitted an eerie blue glow. 

The furthest quarter of the room was still empty, the server racks ending abruptly in darkness punctuated only by the orange light of two sleeping computer monitors. There were two terminals here for read-only access to the content of the data. He doubted that he had the full level of access available to the executives, and he could not imagine either Hojo or Hollander, at the height of their rivalry willingly depositing their precious secrets for the other to pore over, but Sephiroth figured he could make a start here. 

He took a seat, seeing only the faintest outline of the desk and chair before the screen illuminated when he bumped the mouse. He squinted against its brightness for a few seconds before logging in. He searched for anything he could find on Genesis Rhapsodos, Angeal Hewley, and Project G. The most recent information came up first—reports they had written about their missions and campaigns in the Wutai War. There were medical records too, the standard workup—laboratory values, blood pressure, height, weight, and a few notes on the state of Genesis’ shoulder injury, cursory descriptions of how far his degradation had advanced. He had two to three years at most to live, the notes warned, with Hollander’s treatments only temporarily halting the progression of his genetic decay, though there was nothing in his records to indicate what those treatments were. Sephiroth scanned the documents for a date attached to those notes. They had been written just two months before Genesis had deserted Shinra, meaning that eight months had already passed. Sephiroth’s gut wrenched, but he continued to sift through the information his search had called up. 

The system even retrieved their scores from their SOLDIER selection examination, back in the olden days when it had just been a one day event—a few physical challenges and a written test—not the two-day gauntlet that it had become now. Funny, Sephiroth noted as he tabbed through, Angeal had scored higher than Genesis. Sephiroth wondered if Genesis had known, even though it was practice to keep the scores confidential to only the selection committee. Sephiroth’s fist clenched around the mouse when his thoughts wandered back to Angeal and his friend’s broken promise. Angeal had better have a damn good excuse for standing him up, Sephiroth fumed silently, determined more than ever to track his two friends down. Where one was, the other was surely not far, for that had always been the way with Genesis and Angeal. 

Project G turned up only a few results in the system, a few summaries from executive meetings, but nothing of particular use. There were also a slew of budget requests, requisitions, and endless budget justification memos. It took Sephiroth quite a while to work out that the public garden in Sector 7 had also been nicknamed Project G by Urban Planning, and the better part of the afternoon to wade through the documentation and figure out which ones he needed to read and which to skip. 

After a few hours of hunching over the computer with very little learned to show for his efforts, Sephiroth squeezed his eyes shut, deciding to take a short break. The darkness was dulling his senses and making him sleepy. Maybe he could sneak a coffee in, or find a stronger stimulant. He rose from his chair, intending to do just that, when he staggered back one step, knocking the chair over so hard it clattered to the steel grating. His own face from boyhood, soft features illuminated with the ghostly light from the screen, gazed innocently back at him from out of the blackness.

Chadley stood before him, unmoving, blinking a little too slowly, a little too infrequently for a human. Sephiroth had no idea when Chadley had entered, and how long the thing had been observing him soundlessly. Sephiroth’s hearing was famously sensitive, but the thing’s movements must have been masked by the dull hum of the room’s cooling system. Chadley must have matched the frequency of its drone. Sephiroth filed that information away for later use. 

Briefly, he considered destroying Chadley without even giving it the opportunity to justify its reason for spying on him. A concentrated Thundaga spell would be enough to fry its circuits beyond repair, but it would have the unfortunate effect of taking out the rest of the data servers too. 

“Chadley,” Sephiroth said coldly, trying to think of a less inconvenient way to dispose of the android should it prove necessary. 

“General Sephiroth,” the thing lowered its chin and flickered its eyes downward in deference.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sephiroth asked, lacing his voice with just a hint of irony.

Chadley pointed its finger at the computer that Sephiroth had been using. “When you search on that terminal, it leaves a record.”

“I am aware.” Shinra watched everything, but Sephiroth had calculated that this risk was worth taking. The company was severely underestimating their strongest SOLDIER if they thought he’d let himself be kept in the dark about Project G, especially after he’d encountered both Genesis and Angeal, in person. He wouldn’t be the General Sephiroth the media had lauded for all these years without doing some of his own intelligence gathering. 

“There are also a lot of files you don’t have the clearance to access.”

“I am also aware.” Sephiroth eyed the synthetic version of his younger self in what he hoped was a threatening manner. He had no idea if Chadley was even capable of being intimidated. “Did Hojo send you to tell me things I already know?”

Chadley shook its head. “I decided to come by myself when I saw you enter this room.”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been watching me?”

Slowly, Chadley raised its hands, signaling submission, perhaps sensing that Sephiroth was exploring his options for its demise. “I’ve been studying you. Not because I was told, but because you are interesting to me.”

“Why? Did Hojo program that into you?”

Chadley’s eyes defocused for a moment. “There is nothing in my coding that mandates an interest in you outside of my assigned tasks. I also detect no purposeful modifications to my programming to such an end.”

“Then cut to the chase,” Sephiroth snapped. “What are you doing here?”

Chadley paused as if its next words required effort. “I...I’m here to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Help you find the information you need,” Chadley continued, its speech slowly resuming its usual pace and cadence—what had been Sephiroth’s pace and cadence. 

“Why?” Sephiroth probed suspiciously. “What will you do once you’ve helped me?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I’m sure even your programming needs a reason for any given action. Spit it out.”

Chadley paused again, brows furrowing and eyes closing in concentration. “I believe that finding you will help me in return,” it finally managed. 

“How?” Sephiroth demanded. It did not escape his notice that Chadley had only answered the first half of his question.

“I...am unable to articulate.”

“Try,” growled Sephiroth, his patience beginning to wear thin. 

“I…” Chadley began and then stopped. It struggled, and appeared to take a deep breath—not that it needed one. It glanced hesitantly at him, as if understanding his impatience. “It was wrong. What they did to Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley was wrong.”

“They?”

“Hollander. Project G. Shinra,” Chadley said quietly, his voice barely audible above the background noise in the data center. “I want to help.”

Chadley was quite good at adopting an expression of distress, thought Sephiroth. It would look genuinely human to anybody who didn’t know better. It was risky to accept assistance from any of Hojo’s creations—there was no telling whether the thing would report all of its actions to Hojo and then subsequently have its memory wiped or circuits altered. But Kunsel’s intel could only go so far, and he relied on hacking into vulnerable computers, piggybacking off of software exploits that had yet to be patched, and having friendly lunchtime chats with a few employees from the Science Department. Kunsel wasn’t able to get to the data that Chadley claimed to be able to access. 

Sephiroth studied Chadley, and his own twelve year old face gazed back at him from out of the darkness, guileless.

“I know you can’t trust me yet,” Chadley said. “But here are some of the Project G files.” Chadley extended a hand and uncurled its fingers, revealing a data chip sitting in its palm. “These are classified, from the Science Department’s own archives. You won’t find them anywhere else.”

So, Science did have their own archives. “Who knows you’ve done this?” 

“Nobody,” replied Chadley. “And I have made sure that nobody will find out.” It waited patiently, hand outstretched.

Sephiroth took the chip, deciding for the sake of finding his friends, that he was willing to make a leap of faith. Spying and secret motives were not his forte. He was SOLDIER, not a Turk. 

“If you have further need of information—”

“If I decide to trust you, I will contact you, and not the other way around,” Sephiroth said bluntly.

Chadley nodded. “I understand,” it said and had the temerity to look guilty about startling him. 

It turned and left, melting back into the blackness, a silent shadow as it retreated, its silver synthetic hair dully reflecting the lights that lined the narrow aisle. The room flooded briefly with light when the door opened, and Sephiroth slid back into darkness when it closed again.


	12. All That Creates Suffering

How in the world Roche still had the energy to be out drinking at The Sloshed Shoat and regaling their friends with the events that had transpired at the SOLDIER selection examinations was utterly beyond Cloud. He should have gone back to the barracks and collapsed into his bunk, instead of letting his friend drag him out. They had to be back on duty tomorrow morning, but there was no better time to party than tonight, Roche had said. 

Cloud propped his elbows on the table, supporting his chin in his hands. The pint glass in front of him was cold water rather than beer, the miserable experience of vomiting in a Wall Market gutter still too near in his memory for him to truly cut loose on the alcohol. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the pub was brightly lit and Tomas was still ordering tapas for the table, Cloud’s cheek would have been pressed to the table, fast asleep. 

He’d spent the past two days being put through a battery of tests by SOLDIER. He’d been x-rayed all over, and endured having electrodes taped to his body while five people in white lab coats watched him perform a variety of challenges—jumping, fighting, lifting weights, blowing through a tube to keep a table tennis ball afloat.

He’d still been breathless and weak from the exertion when they’d sat him in front of the computer terminal for another gauntlet of examinations—general knowledge, history, mathematics, and logic puzzles, all mixed in with testing his reaction time. He got an electric shock every time he answered incorrectly as well, and by the end of it he was numb from the amount of impulses that had been delivered. 

The second day had been a practical scenario, a four-versus-four capture the flag type of game in the combat simulator. He hadn’t come up with the plan which had won his team victory, since one of his teammates stole the initiative, came up with a plan, and talked over the rest of Cloud and his teammates, but he’d followed directions well, at least. Except SOLDIER didn’t need people to follow directions. The three most famous First Class SOLDIERs—Sephiroth, Genesis Rhapsodos, and Angeal Hewley—were well known for being astute tacticians as well as for their prowess on the battlefield. If they needed grunts who just followed orders, that was what the PSD was for. 

Cloud groaned and hid his face in his hands. Could he have a do-over, please?

“What’s up?” Giselle asked, nudging him with her elbow. 

“I’m not feeling good.”

Across the table, Roche reached forward and rested a hand on his forearm. “You okay, buddy? Do you need to go back?”

Cloud shook his head. He didn’t want to make Roche take him back to barracks. Roche was having a good time, and he shouldn’t ruin it feeling sorry for himself because he felt he hadn’t done as well as he ought to. 

“What happened to him today?” Tomas asked, cocking a thumb in Cloud’s direction. The sneer in his voice had mostly gone over the weeks since Cloud became a regular in Roche’s group. Mostly. 

“He was one of the last people left running on the cardiopulmonary stress test,” Roche replied, a faint hint of pride in his voice.

“No shit.” Tomas sounded vaguely impressed. 

They’d had all the SOLDIER candidates run flat out on a treadmill for as long as they could. Cloud had held out longer than almost anyone else, through sheer stubbornness.

“Then I puked,” Cloud moaned. His attempt had been put to an abrupt stop, because he’d thrown up and subsequently slipped on his own vomit. If it hadn’t been for the emergency stop on the treadmill, he would have been thrown halfway across the testing facility, along with his sick. That probably earned him minus points, Cloud thought glumly, mortified all over again.

“Oh,” Tomas said. The admiration disappeared. 

Roche grimaced. “That aside, you were among the last five people left on the treadmill. I think the selection committee will be impressed.”

“With the running or the vomiting?” Giselle asked with a grin. She elbowed Cloud to show she was just teasing, no hard feelings.

Tomas snorted. “Both, probably.” There was commotion under the table, and then he let out a hissed, “Ouch!” and glared at Roche. Roche glared right back.

“Don’t worry, you did fine,” Roche turned back to Cloud.

“When do you get your results back?” Giselle asked.

“A couple of weeks,” Roche replied. He and Giselle shared a long look at each other, glanced briefly at Cloud, and then back at each other.

“That’ll go by in a flash,” said Giselle with a grin. “I’m almost gonna miss you two.”

“Yeah, almost,” Tomas snickered.

“Ha ha. Don’t worry, you’ll still see us around. It’s not like they lock you up in Shinra HQ when you join,” Roche said.

“No, they just work you to death.” Tomas took a swig of his beer. He had four empty bottles around him that the busboy hadn’t picked up yet. “They’ll probably be sending you out on remote missions or something. Wutai resistance is still lurking around, according to the news.”

“It’ll be a pleasure to serve,” Roche winked. “You guys gotta learn how to make it on your own at some point—ow, ow, ow!” Roche ducked as both Giselle and Tomas aimed playful punches in his direction. 

The good-natured banter going around the table eventually convinced Cloud to put his hands back on the table. So he might have hurled all over his shirt and the treadmill from running so hard today, but Roche was already talking like getting into SOLDIER was a done deal for the both of them. Borrowing a little of his friend’s confidence, Cloud sat up straighter in his chair, ordered a non-alcoholic mixed drink, and watched quietly and happily as his friends chatted and drank the rest of the night away.

* * *

_Our enemy is all that creates suffering._

Sephiroth had Zack’s report open on his computer again. He’d read it over and over until he practically had Zack’s account memorized, word for word. Shortly after Zack had turned it into him, he’d taken Zack out for drinks at Goblin’s Bar, just to get the details that couldn’t be included in a formal report. In a more comfortable environment, and liberally plied with drinks, Zack had told him all there was to tell. Angeal was the one who had intervened at Mako Reactor 5, let Hollander go, and knocked Zack all the way down to the slums, where it had taken him hours to get back topside. Sephiroth had even listened when Zack talked about the nice girl he’d met when he fell through the roof of her abandoned church, though Sephiroth could have done without the graphic details about the color of her eyes, the scent of her hair, and the brilliance of her smile. From the way it sounded, Zack would be spending more of his off-duty time in the slums, and this girl was a few years younger than he was. For Zack’s sake, Sephiroth hoped the girl’s parents were the Shinra-friendly type, otherwise there was going to be trouble in his future. 

There hadn’t been much for Zack to tell about Angeal after he’d made it back to the plate. Angeal had appeared while Zack had been battling through Genesis’ second attack on the ring road surrounding Sector 0, and asked for his help. Zack had agreed, even though he hadn’t been sure what Angreal wanted, and then they’d decided to join forces to evacuate Shinra Headquarters. After meeting up with Sephiroth and securing the evacuation route, Angeal must have doubled back to keep Genesis from killing Hojo, and pursued as Genesis had chosen to flee into the skies above Midgar. That was the last that Zack had seen of him. 

The details on the exchange with Hojo had been scant. Zack couldn’t recall everything that had been discussed, save something about the lost fifth act of _Loveless_ , and a lot of Hojo muttering about how pathetic and ignorant they all were. 

Sephiroth’s final question to Zack had been his impression of Angeal. Why had he come back? What was he up to?

“I think he’s conflicted and confused,” Zack had said, with a troubled frown.

Sephiroth’s focus turned back to his screen. The words he’d gotten out of Zack and in the report weren’t enough. They would never be enough, not when Genesis and Angeal were still out there, thinking that they were the monsters when the real ones had been the scientists who’d played with their lives from conception. 

Sephiroth had to consciously unclench his fist as his mouse creaked beneath his fingers. He rose from his chair and stepped out of his office. If the training rooms were occupied, he supposed he could always check if the combat simulator on the relaxation floor was open. He couldn’t remember when he’d last given the employees a good show.

The lounge was emptier than it normally was at this time of day. Most of the senior Seconds like Luxiere and Qvist were out on missions investigating Turk intelligence of the movements of Genesis’ clones, but Sephiroth wasn’t betting on their success at being able to find any information leading to his location. Genesis wasn’t stupid, he’d been one of Shinra’s best tacticians, and could likely spend years exhausting their resources, leading them on a merry goose chase around the remotest parts of the world before revealing his base of operations. 

Training Room Five was empty, and Sephiroth was just about to take it for himself when he saw Zack emerge from the elevators, on his tiptoes and looking shifty.

“Zack,” Sephiroth said in greeting, and Zack startled.

“Sephiroth!” Zack exclaimed, guilt written all over his features.

It took Sephiroth a moment to figure out what was making Zack so jumpy. “You’re late for duty.”

Zack blanched. “I’m sorry...sir?”

Sephiroth’s eyebrows rose slightly. Did Zack think that calling him ‘sir’ was going to net him a pass? 

“Into Training Room Five.” Sephiroth cocked his head in the direction of the door.

“My sword’s in my locker.”

“Yes, I can see it’s not on you,” Sephiroth replied patiently. 

“Ah.” Zack looked chagrined, but he still hesitated. Was he missing out on his morning coffee? Then he shouldn’t have been late.

“Do you have a more urgent meeting?” asked Sephiroth, his patience beginning to thin.

Zack shook his head quickly. “Nope,” he said and moved swiftly into Training Room Five. 

“How is your training of Octaslash going?” Sephiroth asked without preamble, as he initialized the standard training room environment. He didn’t feel like spending the morning in the Sister Ray sunset simulation. 

“It’s...going?”

The featureless training arena appeared around them. Sephiroth walked to the center of it. “Show me.”

“But I don’t have a sword.”

“You’ve never had your sword knocked out of your grip?” Sephiroth quirked one side of his mouth up in a sardonic smile. “Lucky you.”

Zack heaved a sigh, duly chastised. Sephiroth raised a hand, and flicked his fingers at Zack in a taunt. Zack was still green despite being First Class now, the simple gesture enough to goad him into attacking before he was ready. Gongsun and Okope would never do that, though it had also taken them some time to break themselves of the habit when they’d first been promoted. Zack leapt at him the exact same way, before he was mentally prepared, before he’d thought through his movements and what he wanted to accomplish. None of them wanted to keep him waiting. They trained to prepare themselves for battle, not for pleasing the Silver General. 

Sephiroth dodged easily, avoiding Zack’s strikes, but was pleased to see that Zack continued to come after him, following up smoothly with seven blows—punches, elbows, kicks. None of them hit their mark, but they were quick, even if unsure. 

“Again,” Sephiroth said. 

Zack was still warming up, so he was a little lighter on his feet on this second pass as he tried a different tactic, trying to circle around Sephiroth with each of the eight strikes. Again, he missed all of them, but Sephiroth had to watch Zack more closely than before. 

“Again.”

Zack improvised, adding feints, changing the direction of his strikes, using their momentum to aid the turn of his body, to lure Sephiroth into a certain position, to create an opening where there had been none before, and take advantage with his next punch. Since he didn’t have the time to dodge it properly, Sephiroth was forced to block Zack’s final blow.

“Again.”

Zack was starting to have fun. Sephiroth could tell from the flush of his cheeks, the exhilarated grin on his face and the glow of his blue eyes. Zack was good at fighting, he picked new things up intuitively from practice and from being forced to improvise when cornered. This time Sephiroth didn’t step back but rushed forward, taking advantage of Zack’s momentary break in rhythm following his execution of the Octaslash. Sephiroth threw two quick, merciless strikes, the edge of his palm aimed for the side of Zack’s neck—it was blocked—and the next straight for his throat, and Zack had no choice but to throw his body backward to avoid being hit. He somersaulted off the ground, landing on his feet some distance away. 

“Hey, you’re playing for keeps!” Zack exclaimed. 

“The power of Octaslash is diminished if you can’t connect it to another attack.” 

“Yeah, I’m still working on it!”

They closed the distance, meeting in a flurry of swings and jabs. Zack didn’t have as much practice with Octaslash as he did with Angeal’s Rush Assault, so it wasn’t integrated as seamlessly into his movements, but he had come a long way in the weeks since his first lesson. Sephiroth went easy on Zack, having to remind himself he wasn’t here to assert his dominance, he was supposed to be teaching. He only took a shot one out of every ten of Zack’s openings, for it would do him no good to injure the man. By the time their sparring session ended two hours later, Sephiroth had gone down to one out of every five. 

A group of nervous-looking Thirds led by Kunsel were waiting as Sephiroth and Zack closed down the program and exited. Sephiroth nodded at Kunsel—he’d kept him around Midgar purposefully. They had a meeting scheduled later in the afternoon. Sephiroth hadn’t peeked at Chadley’s data yet so that Kunsel could have the time to run a diagnostic on it, to check that it was safe and wouldn’t install any surveillance subroutines on anything he stuck it into. 

He beckoned Zack into the empty briefing room on their way to the showers. Zack was starting to smell, and Sephiroth didn’t want the stink of sweat to permeate his office. 

“You’ll receive your new assignment tomorrow from Lazard,” Sephiroth informed him. “We’re putting you in charge of finding Angeal.”

“What?” Zack’s eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s way too much responsibility!”

“I’m still overseeing everything else. Intel, investigating leads, tracking down Genesis and where they’ll strike next. Your part is just about Angeal.” Sephiroth put his hand on Zack’s shoulder. “You can handle it.”

“Oh!” Zack’s fearful expression brightened into one of relief. “I thought you were gonna give me the whole shebang.”

“Well, if you think you’re ready, I’m sure I’m sure I could make a case to Lazard…”

“Nope, I’m not!” 

Sephiroth suppressed a smile. Zack would be ready for something big like this in time. “I’m sure the Director will drop a meeting in your calendar soon for tomorrow morning. Try not to be late. I know the morning train up from the undercity doesn’t always run on time, but he’s not going to buy that excuse.”

* * *

“Where did you get this?” Kunsel asked, as soon as the door to the bathroom that served double as their meeting spot swung shut. He held Chadley’s data chip between his fingers. 

“Someone volunteered it.”

“Am I allowed to know who?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “I can’t disclose the identity of my informant, even to you.”

Kunsel crossed his arms, and shot Sephiroth a hard stare.

“It’s not an issue of trust,” Sephiroth insisted. “It’s an issue of risk.”

They regarded each other for several silent seconds, before Kunsel finally nodded, reluctant. “I was hoping to collaborate with them, to be honest,” he sighed.

“It’s best not to.” Sephiroth took the proffered chip. “Can I trust this?”

“I’ve run everything I know on it, and there’s nothing shady about it as far as I can tell.”

“And the authenticity of its contents?”

“Who can say?” Kunsel shrugged. “But the files weren’t all created the other day, if you’re worried about that.”

Reassured, Sephiroth pocketed the data.

“How goes the rest of…” Kunsel asked curiously.

“The Turks are being tight-lipped as usual,” Sephiroth said. They’d been the ones who’d overseen the cleanup of Hollander’s makeshift lab in Mako Reactor 5. They’d passed on some intelligence of course, but Sephiroth knew it was just trickle from the sea of information they were keeping to themselves. He’d even taken a page from their book, lying about his own encounter with Genesis in his account. President Shinra wouldn’t have been happy to know he’d been willing to hand over the head of the Science Department in exchange for a cessation of Genesis’ attack on the city. 

Sephiroth was sure the investigations would go more smoothly if only all the Shinra departments were less adversarial. The Turks reported up to the Vice President, and SOLDIER indirectly up to the President, with a strange dotted line to Heidegger, and Science as guarded as ever about denying the existence of Project G. Then again, when had Shinra Company ever been a beacon of goodwill and not a warren of politicking and bickering over budgets? Speaking of budgets…

“Do you have any accounting experience?” Sephiroth asked suddenly. 

“Can’t say I do,” Kunsel said. Sephiroth allowed Kunsel a few seconds to follow his train of thought. “Wait, you think we can use the financial trial to find Genesis and Hollander?”

“It's worth a shot. Hollander had to have bought some things in the weeks he was gone.”

“It’s not going to be easy tracing that. Forensic accounting isn’t exactly my specialty.”

“No,” said Sephiroth thoughtfully. “But I may know someone who is good at crunching massive amounts of data in a short amount of time.”

Kunsel raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask. “I’ll see what I can find, then.”

* * *

The rest of Sephiroth’s day was blocked out by a meeting of the SOLDIER selection committee. It was yet another task that Angeal used to undertake, and like many other things, now fell onto Sephiroth’s shoulders. None of the other Firsts were around to delegate to, and Sephiroth was a little fearful of who Zack would end up choosing if given free rein.

There were fifteen places in this round of intake, a few more than the usual ten because they needed to fill the positions that had been decimated by Genesis’ desertion. The committee was a mix of members from Human Resources, Science, Public Security, and included himself and Lazard. There was a comprehensive scoring algorithm which weeded out the half of the applicants whose physical abilities were not up to SOLDIER standards, and also helped to select the top few who performed well above their peers, but amongst those left, selecting those who would be accepted was an arduous process. 

Minute bits of personal history, observed actions and behaviors in the practical exercise, as well as individual questions in the written examination were delved into in order to make the correct decision. A slightly faster reaction time might make the difference between two applicants who were otherwise evenly balanced, or someone who had demonstrated leadership might be chosen even if their cardiovascular fitness was slightly below another’s. SOLDIER had a tendency to choose cadets from the ranks of the PSD, as the harsh training regimen and physical fitness demanded of them gave them an edge over civilians, though several successful SOLDIERs, including Howard Kunsel and even Sephiroth himself, had no formal military experience prior to being selected for the elite unit. 

It was well into the evening by the time they whittled the list down to the final candidates, the last opening a choice between two freshly graduated PSD privates. Their profiles were thrown up side by side on the main screen of the conference room, and the selection committee pored over every detail in their dossiers, every number from the examination itself—heart rate, lung capacity, reaction time, even their test scores as recruits. They both had minor commendations in their records for seeing action in the attack on Sector 8, they both excelled at Emergency Vehicle Response, and were roughly evenly matched on physical ability. 

“Can’t we just take both?” asked Dr. Daryl Gabbiani from Science. She slid her glasses up to her forehead and rubbed her eyes wearily. “I don’t see much of a difference.”

“What you’re saying implies there is a difference,” Lazard countered. “I would rather take two fewer than two more at this stage.”

“I thought we needed to fill some resource shortages,” said Arlanc from Human Resources. 

“Yes, but we also have to consider the time and resource drain of training them,” replied Lazard smoothly. “It’s going to take some time to rebuild SOLDIER to the size it used to be. I accept that.” Lazard folded his hands on the table and regarded Sephiroth. “What are your thoughts, General?”

Sephiroth studied the two profiles again. “We decided to take fifteen cadets, no more, no less. There is a difference between these two candidates.” He pointed to the one on the left. “This one knows his limits.” 

The rest of the room peered at the screen. 

“Rash actions and foolhardy risks puts SOLDIER in danger, not just as individuals, but the unit as a whole. We need cadets who make smart decisions, and don’t jeopardize their missions. The time for war is over, and the need for heroes is past.” 

Sephiroth sat back as the rest of the committee eyed each other, murmuring their agreement with Sephiroth’s principles. The thirst for the accolades of a hero had gotten Genesis nothing but resentment and bitterness. Dreams and honor were also figments of the past with no war on. SOLDIER was nothing but an elite force of operatives, an enhanced cross between the brains of the Turks and the brawn of the Public Security Division. The unit needed to evolve with the times. If SOLDIER were to find Genesis and Angeal, they needed more than cadets who could follow orders and dreamt of more than battlefield glory. 

His decision made, Sephiroth stood and took his leave. The candidate he had chosen was not the one that Angeal would have picked, but if Angeal had cared more for SOLDIER and his charges within than for himself, he would never have left. As much as he loathed having sole responsibility of it, SOLDIER belonged to Sephiroth now. It would no longer be what it once was, not after both of his friends had gutted it. Heroes, dreams, honor, indeed. 

The 49th floor was nearly silent when Sephiroth returned, with hardly a soul about save for Kunsel in the armory, polishing his blade. He looked up when Sephiroth entered. 

“Another meeting overran?”

“No one can keep a meeting to time these days,” Sephiroth grumbled. “The more important it is the longer it goes.”

“The key is not to be so important that you get invited to those,” Kunsel winked. 

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Sephiroth replied dryly. 

“What was it this time? SOLDIER selection?”

Sephiroth nodded, and wondered if he could delegate representation at the next round of intake to Kunsel. He could trust the man’s judgement, and it was yet another reason to keep him around Midgar, instead of sending him afield. “Are you interested?” 

“Only in two of the candidates,” said Kunsel, with an affable smile.

“Friends of yours?”

“A couple of recruits when I taught EVR.”

“Ah.” Sephiroth had forgotten that Kunsel had subbed in for an ill PSD sergeant. He knew exactly which two applicants Kunsel was referring to. 

“They didn’t make the cut?” Kunsel asked, anxious and not entirely able to mask it.

“We took one.” Sephiroth wasn’t supposed to be discussing the cadet admissions process outside of the committee, but he trusted Kunsel’s discretion. 

“Who?”

“Hoffman.”

Kunsel nodded with understanding. “He’ll make a great SOLDIER someday.”

Sephiroth smiled tightly. That was all they could hope for in these times.


	13. On a Path

Dear Candidate, 

Thank you for your interest in the SOLDIER program, and in serving the people as a proud member of the Shinra Electric Power Company. 

It is with greatest regret that I write to inform you that your application was not successful. 

Though there are hundreds of candidates for SOLDIER every year, we are only able to accept a small handful at every intake. Based on your interest and abilities, we urge you to continue to explore further employment opportunities within the Shinra Company. 

We appreciate your time and interest, and wish you the best of luck on your future endeavors. 

**Lazard Deusericus**  
Director of SOLDIER, Division of Public Security  
Shinra Electric Power Company

* * *

Cloud sat quietly in the southwestern corner of Fountain Plaza, watching as Sector 8 slowly flooded with people looking for a good time on a Friday night—theatre-goers on their way to see the latest production of _Loveless_ , party-seekers who’d just wrapped up their white collar jobs. There was no sign that there had ever been a mobile command center erected here, the blood that had dripped onto the cobblestones from the wounded and dead carried into the medical tent long washed away. The tourists had even returned to the city, the bar at the Loveless Grand Hotel packed with visitors and natives alike. 

There was comfort in people-watching like this, in imagining that the group of four girls in short skirts and high heels were on their way to the club, and that elderly couple probably out to celebrate their wedding anniversary. There was a group of friends, just a little older than his, going out to dinner. Cloud had gotten an invite tonight to head out to their usual Sector 3 pub, The Sloshed Shoat, to celebrate, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. His phone vibrated in its pocket against his leg—someone was trying to call—but he ignored it. 

For the first time since coming to Midgar, Cloud missed Nibelheim. Or more accurately, he missed his mother. She’d make him his favorite food when he was down, let him eat as much dessert as he wanted, sit with him on the couch and let him watch television all night. She’d listen to him talk, put her arms around his shoulders, and just keep squeezing until he cried it all out. He’d left home to become a hero, to become SOLDIER. He wondered what she would say to him now that he had failed, or if she’d simply sit beside him and let him know she was there.

If he wanted to hear his mother’s voice, he’d have to dial her, and that meant taking out his phone and looking at all the calls and messages he’d missed. They were probably all from Roche, wondering where he was. Cloud knew it was childish for him to avoid his friends and sulk on his own, but he wanted to indulge in something selfish, now of all times. He picked over everything he’d done during selection, turning it over and over in his mind. Should he have been more assertive in the practicum? Should he not have run so hard during the cardiopulmonary stress test? He’d come all the way by himself from a small town to enlist in the PSD. He’d made it through training camp, and had even been prepared to die defending Sector 8. What more did SOLDIER need from him? Even after all the serendipity that had brought him closer to the man he’d idolized since childhood—being chosen by Kunsel to go to the Honeybee Inn to see Argenta Rhodea, getting mugged in Wall Market, being on Floral Street when the rogue Sweepers had come for them. If destiny had granted that Sephiroth save his life, twice, why could it not also give him SOLDIER?

The 8th Street Café across the square was beginning to pick up. Though it was dark, the warmth of the summer evening lingered, and the restaurant’s guests all opted to sit outside on the terrace. The aroma of the food reminded Cloud he hadn’t eaten since the sandwich he’d hastily wolfed down for lunch while still on duty. He ought to grab a bite, but it felt downright pathetic to eat alone. Cloud rose from his bench, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and sauntered off, removing himself from the temptation of the café. 

He headed off without a particular destination in mind, drawn solely by the bright lights and hubbub of the crowds in the city. Cloud wandered along Loveless Street, and looked up at the glitzy theatre marquee. The night’s second round of seating was beginning to trickle into Bobson’s and the fancy pizza parlor next door. Cloud kept walking, his head down, shoving past the crowds on the street, avoiding eye contact, and going wherever he wanted to. As long as he kept his feet moving, even if it meant circling the block a few times, he was okay.

He bumped shoulders with a drunk in a denim jacket, and nearly started a fight with him. It would have come to blows, had the man’s friends not intervened and dragged him off. Cloud was still flipping him the bird and glaring back after him, when he almost walked into a Midgar Postal Service mailbox on the edge of the sidewalk. Cloud scowled at it, flushing with embarrassment.

 _Good going, Strife_ , he thought sourly. No wonder they didn’t want him in SOLDIER. 

He looked around and realized he’d made it all the way to Floral Street, just a couple of blocks away from the Bedbury intersection where he’d been patrolling when the attack had hit. It looked different at night, when there were people lining the streets and plenty of diners outdoors. It almost didn’t look like the same place where he’d had to push people inside or beg them to find shelter. The cars lining the street weren’t the delivery trucks or white vans that lined the streets during the day. At night, they were the fancy cars driven by the well-heeled residents of Midgar, sleek coupés with powerful engines and roaring exhausts. Cloud spotted a red Shinra La Sarthe, one of the latest models, svelte and aerodynamic in its design. It cost more than a year’s wages for a PSD private, and someone had parked it by the curb. Cloud was drawn toward its shape, but seeing instead in his mind’s eye another La Sarthe, a classic model that he had once encountered in the vehicle simulator, black as night.

“There you are.”

Cloud looked up. Roche was leaning against the wall. He had his hair slicked back, though a few strands were out of place, and wafting in the light, balmy breeze. He was wearing jeans, ripped at the knees, because that’s what was fashionable, paired with a red t-shirt and his black leather jacket. He looked just like any of the other Midgar guys, hitting the town at the end of the week, while Cloud hadn’t even changed out of his uniform when he’d run out of the barracks. At least he’d taken off his armor and his collar, but he looked half-dressed, like someone had robbed a PSD private in a dark alley and taken all the expensive stuff. It was a miracle Roche had even called out to him at all, looking like he did.

“What do you want?” Cloud asked, defensive and sullen. He didn’t want Roche’s company. He wanted to continue wallowing in self-pity alone. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I wanna talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Then I’ll take you out for a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.” Cloud’s expression darkened. Roche ought to mind his own gods damned business, he was supposed to be out with Giselle and Tomas and everybody else.

“What do you want to do, then?” They were starting to make a scene, and getting some weird stares from passersby. 

Cloud wanted the plate to open up a hole so he could plummet into the slums, he thought viciously. He wanted to walk around by himself all night, toss himself into traffic, or do enough drugs to be completely delirious. He wanted to find Argenta Rhodea and kiss the hell out of her. He wanted to be in SOLDIER so he could be close to Sephiroth...and kiss the hell out of him, yeah, why not. He wanted to go back to Nibelheim. There were too many completely unviable options, so Cloud simply snarled, “Nothing!”

Roche nodded decisively. “Okay.”

Cloud expected Roche to stalk off—he thought he’d put enough venom into his answer to drive his friend off—but Roche made no move to go anywhere. Instead, he sank down to the ground and settled there, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. 

Roche looked up at him. “You gonna sit down or what?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Roche replied. “You gonna join me? I’ve been waiting for you half the night.”

Cloud considered storming off and leaving Roche in the street. It would be satisfying, but only for the briefest of moments before he became wracked by guilt for the rest of the night, if not the following day as well. Roche could be infuriating, and he was terrible at minding his own business, but as much as Cloud resented him right then, he remembered that Roche had confessed to having feelings for him. If nothing else, Cloud was Roche’s friend too. 

Cloud heaved a sigh and flopped onto the concrete. They sat in silence for a few minutes, leaning their backs against the brownstone between shopfronts, letting the crowd on Floral Street walk around them. It was just a few meters away, in the middle of the road, where Sephiroth had appeared to him, the impact of his landing sending up a huge cloud of dust in the air. Just the hazy memory of the Silver General in Cloud’s head was enough to make him suck in a breath. He hated that memory was the closest he’d be coming to Sephiroth for a long time to come. 

“This is where he was when I saw him,” Cloud said softly, staring at the point on the asphalt where Sephiroth had alighted.

Roche turned to look. He squinted, as if there were footsteps or cracks in the tarmac he could see in the light of the streetlamps. “Yeah? What’d he look like?”

Cloud didn’t have enough words to describe what he had seen, so he shook his head. He pictured the shadow of Sephiroth’s leather coat, the glint of the Masamune in the sun, the silver swirl of his hair, ever in motion as he fought. 

“Amazing,” Cloud said softly. “Deadlier than any footage you’ve seen of him onTV. He’s fast, and strong, and he moves…” Cloud paused, struggling to find adequate words to describe Sephiroth’s perfection. “And the way he moves, it’s smoother than anything you’ve ever seen. He’s unreal, Roche. He took on two Sweepers by himself, and he made it look easy, like he wasn’t even making an effort. There’s no one else in the universe even close to his level.”

“That’s what Giselle and Aleksandr said too,” Roche said quietly.

“They did?”

“Not quite in those terms,” grinned Roche lopsidedly. “They’re not as in love with him as you are.”

“I’m not—” Cloud protested, but he stopped short as soon Roche shot him a flat look. 

“You think I can’t tell when you’re in love with someone?”

Cloud drew his legs up and hugged his knees to his chest. He only realized he’d had a crush on Sephiroth when he’d seen him that day. He’d even realized his crush on Argenta Rhodea earlier. Great, two crushes on the same person, completely out of reach. Cloud buried his hands in his arms. “He’s beautiful, Roche.”

“I know. I’m pretty jealous you saw him in person that day.”

Cloud lifted his head, and looked askance at his friend. He was the one that ought to be jealous. “What are you talking about? You made it into SOLDIER. You’re gonna see him every day. He’s probably gonna train you.”

Roche snorted. “Nah, Generals don’t train cadets. We’ll get pawned off on the senior Third Class SOLDIERs, or the Second Class ones at best.”

“At least that means you’ll get to see Lieutenant Kunsel again.”

“Maybe. But I doubt I’ll even meet Sephiroth at all my first year. I’ll only see him from a distance, at best.”

“You’ll meet him eventually though,” Cloud said gloomily.

“Yeah.” Roche shot Cloud a tight smile. “I’m sorry.”

Cloud shook his head. He was just an asshole, making his friend apologize to him for making it into the SOLDIER program. “It sucks,” Cloud admitted. “It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life, and it’s not happening.”

“Not quite your whole life,” Roche grinned. “Sephiroth ain’t that old.”

The way he said it brought a smile to Cloud’s face. “He started young, though.” Cloud couldn’t imagine someone making SOLDIER First Class just a year older than Cloud was now. That was the difference a lifetime of Shinra training made. 

Roche wrinkled his nose. “Can’t imagine that was a lot of fun.”

Cloud nodded too. He couldn’t imagine what Sephiroth’s childhood must have been like, but he wanted so badly to know what it had been. And he wanted to know what Sephiroth was like now, what kind of jokes he cracked when he hung out with his friends, if he cracked jokes. He was curious what made Sephiroth decide it was a Honeybee Inn night, and how he had first decided to become Argenta Rhodea, if it had been a whim, a dare, or something else deeper within. 

Cloud pondered silently. It was pleasant, sitting in the middle of the street, letting the bustle of Sector 8 continue all around them. They were comfortably anonymous, just a couple of guys loitering on the sidewalk. 

“Hey,” Roche asked suddenly, after a long silence had passed. “Why’d you want to join SOLDIER?”

“Huh? What kind of dumb question is that?”

“Hey, it’s a legit question! I wanna know.”

Cloud rolled his eyes. “You tell me first, then.”

“Okay, but you gotta do it like a news interview.”

“Why do I have to do that?”

“Because they’re gonna ask me one day and I want to be prepared.”

“They’re never going to interview you,” Cloud sniffed. 

“Says who?”

“They just promoted a new SOLDIER First Class and the news barely mentioned him.”

Roche snorted. “Point taken,” he admitted. “What's his name again?” 

They wracked their brains, but couldn’t come up with anything other than ‘Jack’, which was almost there, but not quite right. 

“Anyways,” Roche continued when they both agreed they couldn’t remember, “I still need practice. Pretty sure my CO is gonna ask at the first sign of trouble.”

Cloud rolled his eyes, but entertained his friend, wrapping his fingers around an imaginary microphone and adopting a newscaster’s authoritative tone. “Mister Hoffman, now that you’ve saved the world from certain destruction and eradicated world poverty, our viewers must know—why did you join SOLDIER in the first place?”

Roche grinned. “To ogle Sephiroth in the showers.”

“Ew!” Cloud smacked his friend with his imaginary microphone hand. “Gross, you perv!”

Roche cackled. They swatted at each other, a playful exchange turning into a light sparring match, as they practiced jabs, hooks, and gut punches from where they still sat. Roche had the upper hand, because he had longer reach, but he let Cloud win, and got himself soundly cuffed all over. Now they were getting a wide berth on the street, because people thought they were high. Roche put his hands up in the air, and Cloud relented, dropping his hands back in his lap. 

“Seriously though,” Roche said. “Why do you wanna get into SOLDIER so much?”

“I dunno.” Cloud had never given it serious thought. He’d just gotten the idea into his head one day, and there it had stayed, the subject of many hours of daydreaming over the years. “Probably for the same reasons as you.”

“Sephiroth and showers?”

“No!” Cloud flushed, he swatted at Roche again, who ducked this time. “Heroism and all that, I guess. Isn’t that what everybody who gets into SOLDIER wants? Like, winning wars and fighting bad guys and stuff.” Ugh, he sounded like such a child saying this. 

Cloud thought back to Sephiroth that day, his wrath palpable in the mako glow of his green eyes, in the sweep of his blade, in his speed and power as he cut down the invading soldiers and their hacked machines. There had been innocent people sheltering on Floral Street behind him—Sephiroth had held the line. He thought back to Argenta that night in Wall Market, when they’d been chased by those gangsters. She could have continued on her way, she could have instructed her coachman to do something, but she had emerged herself, and chosen to help two strangers she didn’t even know. 

“I wanna help people,” Cloud said again. “I wanna be strong enough to do something important. Something good.” He shifted uncomfortably, they were just sitting around on a busy street and Roche was asking him to spill his guts about SOLDIER. “What about you?” Cloud poked Roche in his friend’s arm. “Serious answers only, or I’m so going to kick your ass.”

Roche smirked, clearly tempted by a facetious response, but answered earnestly at the very last minute. “I guess I just want to be a little closer to the ideal that SOLDIER embodies. I mean, think about Sephiroth. He’s so high up in the chain of command, he doesn’t have to do missions anymore, he doesn’t have to go out into Sector 8. He didn’t have to personally oversee the evacuation of the building in the second wave of the attack, but he did it anyway. Actions like that say a lot, you know? Look at Heidegger in comparison.”

Cloud nodded in agreement, he’d never heard of General Heidegger going out onto the battlefield. 

“Every kid our age, we all grew up with stories about SOLDIER and Sephiroth and his friends,” Roche continued, “but the war wasn’t won just by them, you know? As long as you’ve still got that ideal that you’re aiming for, as long as you’re still doing something and still trying, it doesn't really matter where you are. SOLDIER is just a means to an end.”

“What are you trying to say, Roche?”

“What I’m trying to say is that SOLDIER is cool and all, but it’s not the only place where you can do some good.”

Cloud scowled. “If you’re trying to make me feel better about not getting in SOLDIER, you’re actually making me feel worse.”

“Giselle and Tomas and Alexander are in the PSD, and they’re happy with it. Hell, you can take SOLDIER selection again in two years.”

“Roche, knock it off, you’re still making me feel like shit.”

Roche’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cloud sighed. He poked morosely at the flecks of dirt on the sidewalk. “It’s gonna take some time, but thanks for trying.”

Silence settled again, until something occurred to Cloud, and he narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Say, how did you know where to find me?”

“Giselle told me where Sephiroth showed up that day,” Roche said. “And I figured you’d turn up eventually, consciously or not, you obsessed nut.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re double obsessed,” Roche snorted. “You’re probably the only person in the world who is.”

Cloud leaned back and regarded his friend. “I thought you didn’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter if I believe it, but you do.” Roche poked him in the chest.

“I don’t just believe it, I know I’m right.”

“You’re so not, it’s literally impossible,” Roche scoffed. 

“There’s an easy way to settle this, though.”

“What is that?” Roche asked.

Cloud smiled. “Just ask Sephiroth when you meet him.”

“Oh, sure, I can see that going real well,” Roche chuckled. “‘Hey, Mister General, sir, do you actually moonlight as a famous crossdresser at a high-end Wall Market brothel? Asking for a friend. Thanks for saving our lives that one night, by the way.’ Those will be my last words and you know it.”

Cloud laughed. “I’ll be sure to say some nice things about your hair at your funeral.”

“Gee, thanks.” Roche stuck his tongue out. “If you wanna know, there’s another way that involves less death on my part.”

“And what’s that?”

“Go drag yourself up and convince Argenta Rhodea to take you on as her drag daughter.”

“Pfft,” Cloud snorted. “I have a higher chance of getting into SOLDIER and just asking straight up.”

Roche eyed him. “You’ve thought about the drag thing though.”

“I have not!

“Sure, you have,” Roche grinned. “Just then, when I suggested it.”

“I—”

“Give it some thought. Better than wallowing about SOLDIER.”

“You’re such a fucking dick,” Cloud punched Roche again. “Now you’re just rubbing it in, you bastard.”

Roche winced, but his smile returned quickly. “Feel better?”

“No,” Cloud retorted. “Now I’m mad at you.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.”

They spent the rest of the night just hanging out, Roche’s presence a balm for Cloud’s wounded pride, even though his friend should have been the last person in the world that Cloud wanted to see. When the night wore on and the temperature began to drop, they got up and made their way to the station, so they could take the train back to barracks.

* * *

It was a Sunday afternoon two weeks later when Roche moved out of the PSD barracks. They’d held a farewell party for him the previous night at The Sloshed Shoat even though he wasn’t leaving Midgar. The cadet training program for SOLDIER was famously even more intense than PSD recruit boot camp, so he wouldn’t have the time to hang out for a few months, which was practically the same as a goodbye when it came to his group of gearheads. At least in SOLDIER, Roche would finally be allowed to reunite with his beloved motorcycle, and all they’d have to look forward to was having to find somebody else to play two-on-two shuffleboard with. 

Giselle and Tomas stayed behind at the barracks, giving Roche hugs and clapping him on the back, while Cloud went along to the Sector 3 train station to see his friend off. It should just have been a friendly goodbye, but Roche was hesitating about something, and that tension put Cloud on edge as well. He should have given Roche his response about the invite to a date that night two weeks ago in Sector 8, instead of putting it off. 

“You wanna come with me all the way to Sector 0?” Roche asked, breaking the awkward silence between them as the train rolled up to the platform. 

“Why not?” Cloud replied. He didn’t want to do a heartfelt train platform goodbye, because that was too cliché, and he couldn’t just leave when they had unfinished business. 

Cloud asked him a slew of questions on the train, because keeping Roche talking was better than the quiet settling again between them. Where were the SOLDIER barracks, what was his training schedule, how long was the waiver they’d made him sign when he accepted? Cloud envied that SOLDIERs got to learn how to handle materia and cast magic as part of their training regime, while only officers in the PSD got to learn magic. He wondered whether he should ask Giselle to teach him on the sly. 

Shinra Headquarters cut an imposing figure against the blue sky as Cloud and Roche approached it together for the second time. It was visible from nearly everywhere in the city, a shining beacon of civilization both day and night. There wasn’t the busy foot traffic in the square as when they’d come for the exam, and a part of Cloud still twinged painfully at the thought that Roche would be going inside and leaving him out here by himself. 

“You’ll get in next time,” Roche said reassuringly, as he shielded his eyes from the sun and tilted backward to gaze all the way to the top of the towering structure. 

“I better.”

Roche grinned. “You will.” He said it with a confidence that Cloud wasn’t feeling. “Anyway, I have a present for you.” He seemed suddenly hesitant, a blush coloring his tanned skin. 

Cloud realized in hindsight that he probably should have gotten Roche a gift, but what did guys get other guys when they didn’t want to send encouraging signals? 

“Look,” Cloud began, “you don’t have to do this.” 

“If I don’t, you never will.”

“I can’t take anything from you,” Cloud protested.

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“But, I haven’t—”

“This isn’t about that,” Roche said, cutting Cloud off. He had a pained expression on his face, but hid it well as he bent down to retrieve a package from his backpack. “I know this isn’t the right time for you. And to be honest, it probably isn’t the right time for me either. I should concentrate on this SOLDIER thing for now.”

Cloud breathed a sigh of relief, and felt bad immediately for doing so. He hadn’t known how to break it to Roche that he thought they shouldn’t be together, that the words he’d said about standards were now coming back to bite him in the ass, and that he was petty enough of a man that dating someone who had been selected for SOLDIER while he hadn’t would eat him alive with jealousy. 

Roche straightened and shoved a box into Cloud’s hands. It was wrapped in the paper and matching bow from a chain department store, and its contents rattled faintly when Cloud gave it a shake. 

Roche winced. “You probably don’t want to do that too much.”

“What’s in here?” 

“You’ll see,” Roche replied enigmatically. 

“It better not be something gross,” Cloud warned.

“Come on, what kind of guy do you take me for?”

“The kind that plays practical jokes on his friends when they least expect it.”

Roche feigned wounded feelings. “I’ve never played a joke on you.”

“I said, ‘when they least expect it.’” 

Roche snorted, “I guess that’s for you to decide when to open it, then.”

“If it jumps out at me…”

“It shouldn’t do that, unless you’ve done something horribly wrong.”

Cloud eyed his friend skeptically, wondering what it could be. “Just tell me what it is,” he said, but Roche shook his head, refusing to spill the beans in front of the Shinra building. Cloud resigned himself to waiting until he got back to barracks. “Thank you,” he said, and gave Roche an awkward hug. 

Roche embraced him back, holding on for a second longer than Cloud himself did. “No problem, buddy.”

“See you around.”

Roche nodded. He picked his pack up, mostly clothes and a few personal belongings. “See ya’! Keep in touch, huh?” He set off toward the main entrance, one hand held up in parting. 

“Same goes for you.” Cloud watched until his friend disappeared into the building and sauntered back to the station, his interest piqued by the gift that Roche had left him. His seventeenth birthday was just a couple of months away, and he wondered whether this was supposed to be an early birthday present because Roche would still be in the middle of SOLDIER training. Cloud gave the box another, gentler shake. It sounded like there were a few things in there. 

He was tempted to open it on the train back, but refrained, on the off chance Roche had given him something obscene, so he waited until he got back to Sector 3. Alexsandr was in the floor’s shared lounge, watching an old rerun of “Love and Loss on Loveless Street” when Cloud walked by. 

“You back from seeing Roche off?” his friend hollered. 

“Yeah.” Cloud stopped in the doorway. 

“What’s that?” Aleksandr asked, glancing at the package in his hands. 

“Something he gave me.”

“You got a going away present from Roche? Doesn’t it usually work the other way around?”

Cloud scowled. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, if you need somebody to talk to you, you can talk to me,” Aleksandr said, and sprawled back on the sofa. 

Cloud eyed his friend. “What’s up with you?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” Aleksandr shrugged. “Roche asked me to take care of you is all.”

“I don't need anybody to take care of me.”

Aleksandr spread his hands open. “Just trying to be a decent friend,” he said innocently. 

“Thanks,” Cloud sighed, softening.

“No trouble.” The commercials had stopped running, so Aleksandr turned his attention back to the television. 

Cloud went back to his room—the entire floor of the barracks shared two lounge spaces and a large bathroom and shower area, but at least each person had a small private room, with a sink and mirror. Cloud made sure the door was shut and locked, before he went over to his bed and tore the package open. He laid the contents out on top of his blankets. 

There was an assortment of small brushes, almost like an artist’s paint brushes but with shorter handles, including some big puffy ones, which were most certainly not for paint. There were also small black jars of mysterious powders in various skin-colored shades, a flat palette with colorful powders, an array of black, rectangular blocks which he recognized as lipstick only by virtue of his mother occasionally putting some on, and many other items he couldn’t name. Roche had gotten him a ton of makeup, and in a brand that Cloud recognized from Argenta’s forums as being popular with drag queens. 

Damn, Cloud thought, as he stared, stunned by the sheer volume of present he had. Roche had done his research. Surely, he didn’t mean for Cloud to actually try these, but the more he started looking up what everything was, the clearer it became that, yes, Roche did.


	14. Reflector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: monster gore, mild body horror/medical horror

Sephiroth glared at the mirror, and his own hatred and hostility reflected back at him. Hojo was behind the one-way glass. His mind supplied the sound of the professor’s cackle, like dry leaves on gravel underfoot, even though he could neither see nor hear him. There were surely other scientists with him, some names new, some names old, all watching impassively, clustering around machines and screens watching numbers and graphs fluctuate.

Electrodes were taped all over Sephiroth's chest, a net of recording devices was wrapped tightly around his skull, and there was even an accelerometer affixed to the hilt of the Masamune. He was stripped to the waist, with no armor, no protection save for his leather pants and his boots. They hadn’t even let him take his materia. The room he had been trapped in all morning stank of blood and entrails, the air thick and barely circulating. Puddles of blood gathered on the floor where it was uneven, the metal plating dented and deformed from years of punishment, scores of SOLDIERs and Hojo’s unholy creations battling here for the scientist’s perverse pleasures, like coliseum gladiators of old. The professor could have had his experimental subjects fighting in a simulator instead, but the man preferred realism, claiming that the data generated otherwise would be useless. 

Sephiroth wasn’t sure whether it was the stench of the horde of downed chimeras, the poison that had been making its way through his body for the past hour, or his mental image of the sneering professor that made him feel so nauseated. Hojo didn’t really want to watch him fight. Hojo didn’t care about the elevated cortisol levels in his blood or the patterns of his EEG waves. He only wanted to know how long Sephiroth could withstand the toxins from his latest creation, how much blood it took for Sephiroth to slip and lose his footing, how long Sephiroth could withstand the punishment and despair of endless enemies before he surrendered and begged for an end to the test. Hojo only wanted to know how to break him, and after he broke, whether he would crumble further if the scientist told him he was weak, and that he was failing to live up to Shinra’s expectations and those his legions of fans and admirers. 

It was a fight without victory. If Sephiroth held out as long as he could, exhausting Hojo’s monsters, he would have to spend that many more hours in the hell of his laboratory, surrounded on all sides by steel and shatterproof glass, as Hojo released wave after wave of his abominations. If Sephiroth gave up, then Hojo would taunt him with cruel barbs that burrowed and lodged deep inside him, even more insidious than the poisons diffusing in his blood. A part of him wished that Genesis had successfully taken Hojo out, that he’d had the courage to send Zack elsewhere during Genesis’ second raid, that Angeal hadn’t circled back. Hollander deserved whatever torture the Turks were exacting on him in the name of interrogation, and Sephiroth wondered whether Hojo was any better, whether the entirety of Science was rotten to the core.

He swayed on his feet, his vision swimming, grimly remaining upright. Sephiroth had capitulated many times over the course of his life, Hojo’s training regimen had begun when he was barely old enough to lift an ordinary sword. He’d tried everything in those days—fighting on for as long as he could, giving up when he thought the scientist satisfied, or refusing to fight at all—which had once almost gotten him torn limb from limb by an adolescent behemoth before Hojo had stopped the experiment. That small rebellion—Sephiroth must have no older than ten years at that time—had earned him a week’s solitary confinement to a dark room, strapped down to an operating table with a tube crammed down his throat while they pierced him with a thousand needles delivering the liquids and necessary drugs to keep him alive. There was no satisfying Hojo. Whatever twisted ambition the man pursued, or whether he just sought to fulfill his primal desire for blood, Sephiroth had long ago pledged the man would get no such satisfaction from him. 

Sephiroth lifted the Masamune and held its point steady as the doors to the chamber opened and four more of Hojo’s specimen’s shambled in on mismatched limbs, their mouths protruding with fangs as long as his forearm. Splittle dripped from their lips, mingling with the pooling fluids and decaying flesh piled on the floor. They snorted and gurgled as they inhaled the copper tang of blood, emitting primitive howls as they detected the fetid odor of death permeating the room. The Masamune’s blade glinted crimson in the harsh, white laboratory lights. Sephiroth took a breath, steadying himself, blinking away the darkness creeping on the edges of his sight. He remembered that some of his SOLDIERs were scheduled to battle for Hojo later in the day—Howard Kunsel, Anton Luxiere, and even Zack Fair.

Tightening his jaw, Sephiroth held the point of the Masamune steady. He was not here for Hojo, nor was he here for himself. But if he emptied Hojo’s laboratory of every abomination before he succumbed, then there would be nothing left to face Kunsel, Luxiere and Zack. If he had any power at all in the face of the Science Department, he had this. He would fight until the bodies piled as high as the ceiling. 

Sephiroth rushed forward to strike, the soles of his boots squeaking against the slippery floor, seizing the initiative before Hojo’s creatures closed on him from all sides.

* * *

Sephiroth awoke to a dark ceiling crowded with mechanical arms, each bearing a nefarious looking attachment—drills, scalpels, cutting blades. He sat bolt upright, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Chadley stood beside him with a mild expression, blinking only once as Sephiroth whirled to check that there was no one else in the operating suite, and no saws or lasers were about to descend on him. He finally noticed that the mechanical appendages were dusty with disuse and he wasn’t restrained.

He eyed Hojo’s synthetic assistant warily. Chadley’s files on Project G had proven genuine, a veritable trove of data that would take Sephiroth several months to sort through before he could claim he understood what was contained within. 

“You’re awake,” Chadley said when Sephiroth met its gaze. “You lasted longer than we expected, General.”

Sephiroth had trouble remembering the last thing he’d fought, the entire gauntlet a haze in his mind, once his vision failed and he’d had to rely on his other senses. He didn’t even know what he’d finally been taken out by, whether it had been a blow from one of Hojo’s horrors or the poison seeped into his system. Sephiroth supposed it didn’t matter. 

“You’ve given us so much data we’ve cancelled the rest of the week’s experiments,” Chadley continued. “I just need to take some final samples.”

Sephiroth closed his eyes, exhaling with relief. He’d lasted long enough, then, to spare the rest of SOLDIER his ordeal. It was a temporary respite, for Science would surely have new creations ready for testing with time. Sephiroth met and held Chadley’s gaze for a moment, as it brought out tubes and vials for blood, urine, and other bodily fluids. If Chadley knew what Sephiroth’s gaze had meant, it gave no indication and continued work as efficiently as it usually did. Sephiroth held himself stiffly, his distaste for the android still only half feigned. He glanced around the room, noting the positions of the cameras in the dark corners of the ceiling. They were being watched here, as they were everywhere in Hojo’s laboratory. 

When Chadley finished collecting and labeling the samples, the door opened. 

“You’re free to go,” Chadley gestured. 

The corners of Sephiroth’s mouth quirked upward at the irony in Chadley’s words. He grabbed the Masamune, which needed badly to be cleaned, and stalked off.

* * *

With his appointment with Science for the rest of the afternoon cleared at the last minute—much to his surprise—Zack thought he ought to take a peek at how the new cadets were getting along with their training. So he sauntered over the largest training room on the SOLDIER floor and peered curiously through the upper level observation window. Samara Njeri, one of the senior Seconds who had joined SOLDIER a few years before him, led the freshest cadets through the first forms of their advanced broadsword drills. They hadn’t had their mako injections yet, so even the standard-issue swords looked awkward and heavy for all but the strongest. 

“Were we ever this bad?” Zack wondered aloud. He elbowed Kunsel standing next to him. 

“Nah, kids these days,” Kunsel grinned, “they don’t make them like they used to.”

“They really don’t,” Zack’s brows knit with concern as he counted them under his breath. Fifteen, that was all they could find? It would take almost a year for these recruits to be useful for any missions, and even then, they’d need another couple of years of oversight before being trusted with anything solo. “I thought we were supposed to be rebuilding SOLDIER?”

“The war’s over. Hard to justify the extra cost or something?” Kunsel speculated.

“Genesis is still out there,” Zack muttered. “And actual Wutai resistance.”

“You want me to pass that all the way up the chain?” Kunsel asked, sardonically. “Let me see if I can find a free slot in the President’s calendar.”

“Very funny.” Zack turned back to the cadets, brushing a stray hand through the locks of hair falling in front of his face, which were starting to get a little long and unruly. He ought to use stronger gel and brush them back. “Seriously, though, just fifteen? Are they gonna hold more selections over the year or something?”

“You should know better than me, Mister First Class,” Kunsel said. 

“You know everything, though. I get all the gossip around here from you.”

Kunsel chuckled. “That’s because you’re not paying attention or talking to the right people.”

Zack smirked. “I dunno, I think I am talking to the right person. At least I don’t get in trouble if I say something dumb to you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Kunsel winked.

Zack scoffed and punched Kunsel in the arm. He turned his attention back to the cadets as they took a five minute break for water, and grabbed some towels to dry off their sweat. He noticed that one of them, a dirty blonde with a dusting of chin hair, looked up and waved at them. Kunsel waved back. 

“You know that guy?”

“Yeah,” said Kunsel. “Remember that time you and Anton were supposed to go to the Honeybee Inn with me?”

Zack groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me.” He’d waited nearly a year to finally go, and then he and Luxiere had been forced to back out because of an urgent assignment. “Anton said you took a couple of PSD recruits with you instead.” Zack pulled a face, there was no way that Kunsel could have had as much fun with a couple of kids barely old enough to be there as his old SOLDIER buddies. 

Kunsel cocked his head at the window. “He was one of them.”

“Really? No shit.” Zack had seen the roster of cadets, and couldn’t remember the guy’s name for the life of him. Started with an ‘R’, though. “What’s his name again?”

“Roche Hoffman.” 

“Right.” That was it. “Did you get to see that drag queen, by the way?”

“Argenta Rhodea?”

Zack shrugged. “I guess?” He didn’t know any drag queens, he’d just jumped at the opportunity to go to the infamous Honeybee Inn, drag show or not. “The one that’s really hard to catch.”

“Yeah, we did.”

Zack broke out into a grin. “Wait, so you actually took a couple of recruits to a drag show?”

“And they loved it,” Kunsel grinned right back. 

“No fucking way.”

“You’ll have to see it for yourself someday,” replied Kunsel.

“Yeah, when’re you gonna get some tickets to make it up to me and Anton?”

Kunsel snorted. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t go! Get your own damn tickets!”

“But I don’t wanna go by myself,” Zack whined. “That’s what lonely perverts do when they just wanna get off.”

“Like I said, get your own damn tickets! Oof!” Kunsel wobbled when Zack gave him a hard shove. 

“Fine, I’ll go with somebody else,” Zack sniffed. He wondered if Aerith would be into going to the Honeybee Inn with him. Just for the show, not for anything else, he’d have to explain hastily. 

Kunsel smirked at him knowingly. “Good luck running that past the mother. Make sure you have your last will and testament sorted out beforehand, so I can inherit all your stuff.”

Zack jabbed at him. Kunsel blocked quickly, and they boxed with each other playfully, roughly evenly matched, until Sephiroth rounded the corner and they both dropped their hands, trying to look like they hadn’t been caught doing something silly and childish. 

“You two realize if you want to teach the recruits how to box, you’ll have to go down and train them yourselves,” remarked Sephiroth dryly, pausing before them. 

“Just wanted to give them a preview of the life of a First Class SOLDIER,” Zack said, shooting Sephiroth a cheerful grin. Zack noticed that Sephiroth seemed strangely tired, and that the dark circles under his eyes weren’t just the shadows cast by the overhead lighting. Was he doing all right? Before Zack could ask, Kunsel spoke. 

“A life of lounging about, punching your friends, and sneaking into the slums to date girls,” Kunsel said wryly. 

“Glamorous,” Sephiroth agreed. 

“Hey, leave my personal life outta this!” Zack said, back-footed by both Kunsel and Sephiroth’s one-two assault on his dignity. “And it’s just the one girl!”

“The one whose roof you ruined?” asked Sephiroth. 

Zack cringed. Sephiroth was making it sound all wrong, like he’d ruined a girl’s house and taken advantage of her, and not that it was some dilapidated old church and she’d been the one taking advantage of him. “There was already a hole in the roof!”

“He means, ‘yes,’” Kunsel supplied. 

Sephiroth nodded with a troubled expression. “I better summon Okope. Zack, get ready to ship out to Wutai.”

“Wait, what?” Zack exclaimed, but Sephiroth was already moving on, giving them a casual wave as he left. Zack turned to Kunsel. “He’s kidding, right?” He was pretty sure that Sephiroth was joking, but there was that sliver of a chance he wasn’t.

Kunsel gazed impassively at Zack. “Of course he’s kidding.”

Zack sighed and turned so he could slump against the glass. Good, he had a date with Aerith tomorrow night. 

Kunsel shook his head. “You make it way too easy, Zack.”

* * *

“We have as much financial data from the Science Department as we’ve been able to dig up.” Sephiroth placed the memory chip in the palm of the ghostly pale hand that extended from the darkness of the data center. “Can you run with this with your own information and see if there are any discrepancies?”

“What are you looking for?” Chadley asked. It took the data chip and pressed it into the space under its thumbnail. 

Sephiroth’s lips twisted with distaste at this gesture, but he said nothing more than, “I want to know where Hollander and Genesis’ money is coming from. At least a part of it.”

“Understood,” Chadley nodded. “I also have more files for you. Hojo has disbanded Hollander’s team and wiped the data from his servers. Some of it is unrecoverable, but I have reconstructed what I could.” It held out a chip to Sephiroth in return. 

“Are there backups anywhere?”

“Those have also been destroyed.”

Sephiroth frowned. He could not imagine the President being pleased by the destruction of any advancements or discoveries being made by his science department, but there was no way to report it without also arousing suspicions about the source of the information. 

After handing him even more data on Project G, Chadley left, gliding silently down the dark aisles until it reached the door. Sephiroth dreaded the task of looking over the files and delving into the reports, having learned that not only had Genesis been created a part of the project, but that Angeal too had been carefully surveilled since birth. Sephiroth had seen the DNA gels that compared Angeal’s to his mother, his father, to Genesis, and the conclusions he’d been forced to draw had turned his stomach. Hollander very notes had confirmed it—the scientist gloating that Angeal was the pinnacle of his achievements, both his scientific and genetic legacy.

Angeal, we need to talk.

Sephiroth sent the message from his private phone once he returned to his office.

_Answer me, you bastard._

* * *

Cloud spent an entire week with Roche’s gift arrayed on the shelf above his sink. He had woefully little knowledge of cosmetics, and it had taken the better part of several evenings, hunched over his antiquated phone, to even figure out which powders were for what. He could have asked Giselle for help—she would know girl things like makeup even if she never wore any—but that would require a whole explanation, and he didn’t feel like going through that with her. What if she thought he was weird even after he told her everything? So, Cloud resigned himself to figuring it out by himself. 

There were some links and resources on Argenta’s forums, which was where Cloud learned that drag queens had to do more complicated things with their faces than girls did. Cloud read up on the theory of contouring and highlighting, understanding it in principle, but was daunted by the sheer complexity of applying that knowledge to his face with liquids, powders, and sponges. His head spun with the sheer amount of information there was, and all the things he’d have to learn—painting, padding, tucking. That last link he saved for later, too faint of heart to read about what queens did with their gentleman parts after reading accounts describing how uncomfortable it was. Cloud wasn’t trying to make a career out of this, he just wanted to look somewhat decent. There were plenty of people on the forums who confessed to being bedroom queens—doing drag only the privacy of their own homes, too shy to even go in drag out clubbing. It was through reading their experiences that finally convinced Cloud to give it a try. What did he have to lose, after all, except a few hours worth of time?

He waited until the next full day he had off duty, and the barracks were empty. Those who had assignments were out, and those who were off had gone into the city—nobody stayed in the barracks by choice. Cloud’s heart hammered in his chest as he washed his face and poured out the first bits of liquid foundation on his fingers. It felt oddly viscous and thick, stickier than sunscreen. He could feel it sitting on his skin as he applied it to his face and smeared it into a semblance of evenness. It flattened his features oddly, obscuring the natural variation in his skin tone, dulling his cheekbones and the shadows of his jaw. He looked strange to himself already, as if a child had colored his entire face with a crayon of a single color. Cloud almost stopped there, uncertain whether he had the skill to restore the dimension to his face, but he pressed on, if only because he had nothing else to do with his Sunday. 

The blush was next, gentle daubs with a pouf under his cheekbones. He looked like a rosy-cheeked doll, but it began to look more natural as he smoothed out the powder—blending, it was called—with one of the bigger, fluffier brushes. Unfortunately, the effect he ended up with was an entire half of his face vaguely pink, like he’d just suffered a mild sunburn. That was close enough, Cloud decided, not wanting to start over, because he’d never get anywhere otherwise. 

He tried his eyes next, picking a faint bluish silver, and dusting some shadow on his eyelid with a small, angled brush. It came either in lumps of powder or hardly at all. Some of the eyeshadow ended up on his face, but Cloud ignored it as he once again tried spreading it out. He tried for some darker colors at the edges to give it depth, but everything ended up mixed together in one solid block of powder that managed to be uneven on both eyes. Cloud grumbled, but continued with the eye liner, repeating to himself that nobody got this perfect on the first try. Or maybe at all. Cloud’s hand shook so badly when he was lining his lid that the dark line was more squiggle than line. He had to do it multiple times until it stopped looking terrible, but it was now five times thicker than when he started. He mostly managed to repeat the process on his left eyelid, even though it took twice as long. How much practice did this take, he wondered, and how many failed attempts would he have to make before being confident enough to look at himself in the mirror?

Clumps of mascara stuck to his lashes, and Cloud had to pick them out with his fingertips. When he blinked, they left little black marks on the skin below his eye, and he had to be careful wiping them away without also wiping the rest of the makeup off his skin or smearing black mascara all over. More than an hour had passed before Cloud picked a lipstick, a deep, rich crimson. Smacking his lips together to distribute the color, he finally dared to get a good look in the mirror.

“I look like a ten year old wearing makeup to school for the first time,” Cloud muttered. His reflection scowled back at him.

He looked awful. There was no other way to describe it. It was an embarrassing caricature of femininity, somewhere between a child’s haphazard drawing and a circus clown, and for a moment all Cloud wanted to do was wipe it all off his face and never think about this again. He even suspected for a second that Roche had given him the gift as a practical joke. What a dick. 

The water in his sink ran a muddy bluish as all the powder and foundation swirled down the drain. Cloud had to rub his eyes three times to get all the eyeliner and mascara off, and scrub his lips with his washcloth to get all the lipstick off. His mouth still tasted vaguely of soap by the time he removed enough that he was satisfied that nobody would notice that anything had ever been on his face. His eyes were still a little dark, but he could pass that off as lack of sleep.

Cloud blinked at his reflection, studying it closely. He looked suddenly plain without the touch of blush, his blue eyes a little duller without the mascara elongating his lashes and the liner accentuating their shape. He’d never noticed before how thin his lips were and how pale he was, despite all the outdoor training he’d endured the past nine months. 

The forums had cautioned him against feeling discouraged by his first attempt and encouraged him to keep practicing. Cloud’s brows furrowed. Gods dammit, he cursed internally. He didn’t know what he wanted or what Roche wanted for that matter, but he couldn’t deny that he had seen something, the barest hint that there had been a girl that he knew but had never met, staring back at him from the other side of the mirror. 

“Screw it.” Cloud hastily tidied the shelf, closed all the vials, shut all the cases, and piled all the brushes off to the side. His curiosity was getting the better of him. 

Cloud threw on one of his t-shirts that smelled the least, stepped into a clean pair of jeans, grabbed his wallet, and headed out of the base and into the city. He needed a few more items—more sponges, an eyelash curler, and some makeup remover, because regular PSD-issue soap tasted terrible and wasn’t doing the trick. 

Waiting for the train to take him into the commercial centers, Cloud gazed up at Shinra Headquarters, piercing the sky. Roche was somewhere in there, along with the rest of the SOLDIER cadets. What was he up to? What was Sephiroth up to on a day like this, he wondered idly. 

Cloud pulled out his phone.

Dammit, Roche, you got me good.

It wasn’t until the evening, long after the end of his shopping trip, that Cloud received a response.

You’re welcome, doll.

Cloud’s expression darkened. The next time he saw Roche, he was going to kick him in the nuts. Preferably with a stiletto.


	15. Unbreakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: body horror/medical horror and mild gore

“You can’t expect me to believe that Lazard Deusericus is the one laundering money from SOLDIER to fund Hollander,” said Sephiroth, as he folded his arms across his chest. 

“I have the supporting evidence,” Chadley replied, and offered up the memory chip. Sephiroth snatched it out of its hands.

“I need to verify this,” Sephiroth said. When Chadley had caught his eye at the canteen on the relaxation floor, he’d hoped the android had had good news for him. Not this. 

The Director of the SOLDIER program, in league with Hollander and Genesis—why, and to what end? Sephiroth did not recall Lazard seeming particularly close with Genesis or the Science Department outside of the usual astute political maneuvering. But the longer he considered the possibility, the more Sephiroth realized had been strange about Lazard’s behavior over the past year—his insistence at being at Fort Tamblin despite never having partaken in a military operation, the subtle inertia he displayed in trying to rebuild SOLDIER. Sephiroth had long wondered how Genesis had operationally managed to disappear his unit in the middle of a campaign. It would be nearly impossible, unless he’d had inside help.

Sephiroth shook his head, doubtfully, but a shadow of plausibility had already been cast. Regardless, he needed to run it through a second party. “It’s rather serious for you to accuse the Director of SOLDIER of working against its interests.”

Chadley regarded him mildly. “The data are the data,” it concluded simply. 

“Is this a political play by Science?”

“From my observations, Professor Hojo does not maneuver without scientific gain,” Chadley replied. 

Despite Sephiroth’s deep distaste for Hojo, the scientist was not the type who deigned to jockey in corporate affairs, so he judged it unlikely that Chadley was instigating, or an unwitting pawn of an attempted takeover by Science. Again, that left the possibility that the head of Sephiroth’s own organization was a turncoat. His gaze flickered back to Chadley, and his own face stared back at him with a harmless expression. Anger rose inside of Sephiroth at Hojo using his own visage in this way, but he felt an odd sense of satisfaction that the professor’s twisted creation was finding a way to rebel against him. Sephiroth did not know how much of his own adolescent personality the android had inherited, and how much had been programmed to fit Hojo’s sick whims, but enough of his teenage defiance must have remained for Chadley to offer up information and assistance in this way; Sephiroth had been receiving data from Chadley for almost two months now. He and Kunsel had enough files to pore over until the end of the year, and beyond. 

“What will you do once you are finished verifying the data?” Chadley cocked its head to the side curiously. 

“Why do you want to know?” Sephiroth asked. 

“I am interested in your assessment of trustworthy parties within the company. I have not encountered many people outside of Science.”

“It may be easier to tell you who not to trust.”

“I’m able to extrapolate that information based on the organizational hierarchy and my intuition modules, but this method of elimination is inefficient and does not provide a complete set of parameters.”

“Welcome to my world,” said Sephiroth wryly. “If the information you’ve just given me is true, then one of the men I would have gone to otherwise can no longer be trusted. This has caused me to rethink my...parameters.”

Chadley considered this information carefully. “I see,” it said, and its brows furrowed as if troubled. 

Even by the ghostly illumination of the data center, Sephiroth marveled at the detail Chadley was able to incorporate into its expression. If he had not known Chadley to be an artificial construction, he would have believed the android to be a real human boy. The Shinra employees outside of Science likely did not know Chadley’s origins, and it was unlikely his own SOLDIERS had even realized. Those eyes certainly looked more natural than his own mutant, slitted pupils—yet another way in which Professor Hojo used Chadley to burrow under his skin. 

Sephiroth shuddered, firmly shoving his memories of the scientist aside. “If you find any evidence contradicting your findings, contact me immediately.” 

“Is there anything else you need?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “Lay low,” he instructed. “I will find a way to contact you if I need you.”

Reluctantly, Chadley nodded.

* * *

Kunsel let out a low whistle. “It’s gonna take more than a couple of weeks to go through all this,” he said, browsing through the data files quickly on his phone. 

“I’ll help,” Sephiroth offered. He kept his expression the usual level of neutral when they met, but Kunsel wasn’t stupid. 

“...You don’t like what this data shows,” Kunsel said, after a few seconds of studying him closely. “What do I need to know?”

Sephiroth pursed his lips. “My informant tells me it’s Lazard Deusericus.”

“What?!” Kunsel exclaimed.

Sephiroth leveled a hard stare at him, to show that he was serious.

Kunsel fell into shocked silence, processing the implications. “Damn,” he cursed finally, speaking for them both. “How much do you trust your source?”

“I trust them to properly analyze the data they were given. But I don’t know if they’re being duped into a spurious conclusion.”

Kunsel cast his gaze downward, deep in thought. “We need another route of—”

The rest of Kunsel’s words were interrupted by the blare of a klaxon, seven short blasts, signaling that something was wrong in the SOLDIER infirmary, one floor below. The last time Sephiroth had heard that alarm was two years ago, when a leak of anesthetic gas threatened to knock out everyone on the floor. 

Kunsel cocked his head in the direction of the door. “You go first, I’ll follow in a few seconds.”

The lounge was empty, and it was not until Sephiroth reached the corridors that he spotted Samara Njeri. She beelined for him, starting to report before he even needed to ask. 

“We have a cadet with an unusual mako reaction. Come with me.”

He fell into step beside her, remembering that the cadets were scheduled to start receiving the mako serum this week. “Did that necessitate pulling the alarm?” 

“Science pulled it,” Njeri said. “This is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

Sephiroth quickened his pace at the concern in Njeri’s voice, as they rushed side by side down the stairs. Sam was a senior Second Class SOLDIER—seasoned, steady, and nigh unflappable. Sephiroth had seen her battle off a Wutai ambush and not bat an eyelid. 

“Heads up,” she barked, as they opened the doors to the 48th floor. A handful of Thirds scattered to the sides of the hallway, scrambling to toss themselves out of Sephiroth’s path. 

“Who’s taking care of the rest of the cadets?” 

“Sierra and Roman.”

“Make sure none of them see this. I’ll take it from here.”

Njeri nodded smartly, and headed back the way they came to convey his orders. 

There was a cluster of white coats crowded around the windows into Surgery Suite 3. They, too, jumped aside as soon as one of them noticed Sephiroth incoming, leaving him an unobstructed view through the glass. He had to suppress a sharp intake of breath at the sight before him. 

The operating table was unoccupied, dried blood smeared across its stainless steel surface. The leather straps on the sides and end—used to secure the arms and legs of the cadet receiving the mako serum—were dangling, their metal attachments warped and ripped clean off. Above the table crouched the mako injector, a purpose-designed device used solely for creating SOLDIERs by infusing the mako serum through a thousand thin silicone tubes ending in flexible filaments of fine steel. It was spider-like in appearance—a round, fat body suspended from the ceiling, a sinister predator striking its multitude of limbs and inserting its needles into the cadet, piercing deep into every inch of flesh, muscle, and bone to slowly deliver its precious mako venom. The process was laboriously slow and excruciating even under the analgesics they gave the cadets before the procedure. Sephiroth had been young when he had undergone the procedure and his memories of the experience were hazy, but the thought of lying helpless on the table, strapped down, pricked a million times over and having to endure the sensation of his nerves being set on fire for one whole day and night while mako infused sluggishly into his body still made him shudder. 

Instead of being perched over a body on the operating table, the tubes of the injector now stretched as they were tugged from their resting position, a skein of slim strands all straining in one direction, drawing Sephiroth’s eye toward the cadet shambling toward the window on his feet, his eyes aglow with the first signs of mako poisoning. His skin was dotted all over in reds, greens, and browns, small pinpricks of blood from the needles where they punctured capillaries sometimes mixed with oozing green mako. Several had been ripped out when he had torn himself loose from the table, creating bright crimson gashes on his skin, but the bulk remained protruding from his body, giving him the appearance of a human pincushion or a marionette controlled by a thousand embedded strings. 

Along with the cadet, there was one scientist in the room—Sephiroth recognized him as Dr. Waterhouse, who had been overseeing mako injections for years. Waterhouse was being lifted off his feet, his legs kicking helplessly as the cadet closed fingers around his throat and raised him aloft. The scientist’s hands were scrabbling at the cadet’s fingers, trying to pry them loose from his neck, but the cadet was much stronger, with that much mako in him. The cadet roared, baring his teeth as Waterhouse continued to struggle, and tossed the scientist against the glass. Waterhouse hit the window with a dull thud, and slid to the floor in a loose pile of limbs, unconscious. The rest of the scientists were frozen, too transfixed by horror of the scene to move. Even Sephiroth flinched. He stared at the cadet who gazed back with glazed, unfocused eyes. There was nothing there, no spark of thought, only instinct. 

“Sedate him!” Sephiroth ordered, and that jolted the scientists out of their fear. 

One rushed to a blinking control panel outside of the room, tapped a few times, and a white gas began to flood the chamber. They chattered amongst each other—how could this happen, what had gone wrong, they had never seen a reaction like this before—the volume beginning to rise in pitch as they realized that the sedative they released into the surgical suite was in fact having the opposite intended effect. 

The cadet’s muscles bunched, even as the mako infusion ceased. He was pressing himself against the glass now, bending the myriad of filaments inserted into his legs, chest, and face as he clawed desperately at the smooth, transparent surface. Stretched beyond their limit, the injector’s needles detached from the cadet’s skin, each tearing a long gash and leaving a trail of blood, as they retracted, springing backward into the room, until the cadet looked like he had suffered a million tiny cuts. Through the window, the cadet’s cries were muffled, but Sephiroth could hear the primal shriek—anger, desperation, fear—of a cornered animal. The glass window shook each time the cadet pounded his fist against it. Veins bulged in his biceps, and his face went red with his screams, unrelenting save for the short gasps he took when he ran out of breath. It was an image straight out of Sephiroth’s worst nightmares—being trapped in one of Hojo’s pods and scrabbling at the sides of it for escape, only for tendrils to shoot out of the darkness, grabbing him and dragging him back into the untold horrors of the laboratory. 

“Do you have gravity on you?” A soft elbow in his side shook Sephiroth from his stunned state. It was Kunsel, standing next to him. He couldn’t remember when Kunsel had arrived. Sephiroth forced himself to take a deep breath, and it felt like it had been a long time since he’d done that. 

“Gravity,” Kunsel prompted. 

Of course he did. It was one of Sephiroth’s favorite offensive spells, the materia the lynchpin of his standard offensive configuration. The cadet started throwing his entire weight against the window, trying to break out of it using the brute force of a caged beast, but the glass merely shuddered, and remained intact for now. 

Sephiroth pictured the magic gathering in the palm of his hand, and the planet’s power began to flow through him. He let it swell, feeling it gather as a sensation of pressure and tension before he tossed his awareness forth, beyond the glass barrier. Pale violet light swirling about a sphere of inky blackness surrounded the cadet, who fell to his knees. The myriad of needles strained as one, and were all ripped free as the cadet jerked suddenly. Minute beads of blood and mako flew from his wounds spattering against the window and scattering on the floor around him. The spell should have been powerful enough to lay the cadet flat on the ground, but he still knelt, fighting against the weight pressing against him, his lips curled into a defiant snarl. 

Tightening his jaw, Sephiroth poured more focus into his spell, channeling more power as he intensified it, concentrating on forcing the cadet to the floor while maintaining a clear boundary of effect to avoid pulling the rest of the room’s contents into the gravity well too.

“Tranquilizer!” Dr. Gabbiani, Science’s representative on the SOLDIER selection committee, issued the order, and the rest of the scientists scrambled for the adjacent rooms, fumbling through supplies in their haste to find enough sedative. 

Slowly but surely, Gravity was forcing the cadet to the ground. Not even a SOLDIER First Class would be able to resist this long, much less a cadet. He was bracing his elbows on the floor now, his legs trembling as he was lowered against his will. He struggled in fits and spurts, the tensing of his shoulders preceding a burst of effort. Sephiroth watched closely for those moments, and fed more energy into the spell to counteract the cadet’s attempts to free himself. 

Gravity was one of the most difficult offensive spells to master, requiring intense concentration to create a locus of such immense mass that it deformed the fabric of spacetime, while simultaneously limiting its range. It was easy to lose control of Gravity, to let it grow and consume all of its surroundings before depleting and killing its caster. It was a spell that only Firsts who had reached a certain level of mastery were allowed to learn, and even then under close supervision. There was nothing wrong with Sephiroth’s control—now that Genesis was gone, he was the strongest and most meticulous caster—yet the cadet continued to resist him for long, drawn out minutes. Finally, the cadet sprawled on the ground, exhausted and still. 

With a handful of bottles brought to her Gabbiani filled the largest syringe she could find, half the size of her arm. “Can you hold him down while I inject him?”

“Get in,” Sephiroth said through clenched teeth. Sweat began to bead on his forehead with the effort it took to maintain the spell.

Gabbiani took a deep breath to gather herself. A colleague released the door, and she rushed in, her hands shaking as she approached the cadet, whose forehead was pressed to the floor. He twitched, but was unable to move further. Gabbiani was going to have to get him in a vein for the sedative to do its job. Sephiroth could only shift the boundary of Gravity a little, meaning that the final jab of her needle would have to be done without the effect of the magic. They would have to time it correctly if Gabbiani wanted to survive. 

Gingerly, she crawled toward the cadet, syringe at the ready. She turned to Sephiroth, her face partially obscured by drying drops of blood on the window. “On one,” she said. 

Sephiroth nodded. 

“Three...two...one!”

Sephiroth withdrew the spell and it snapped out of existence as he shunted the rest of the power he had been channelling back into the planet. The cadet reared his head, suddenly freed, but Gabbiani was faster at sticking him with the needle. Caught by surprise, the cadet stared at the scientist, wide-eyed. She braved his shock as it turned into a guttural growl, darting to the side at the very last minute as he reached for her. His fingers never found purchase, for he slumped over before he could get to her. 

The assembly heaved a collective sigh of relief as the cadet fell limply, the anesthetic finally working. The alarm had summoned a team of medics, who trooped in and whisked Dr. Waterhouse away once Gabbiani deemed the suite safe enough to enter. She was in the middle of ordering the cadet to be transferred to Science, when Sephiroth countermanded her.

“He stays here,” said Sephiroth, glaring at the emergency response team and at the scientists, daring them to object. 

“He’s safer in the laboratories,” Gabbiani protested. The hem of her lab coat and the knees of her trousers were covered in blood from where she had knelt to sedate the cadet. “We can monitor his—”

“He stays,” Sephiroth repeated firmly. “You can take your samples and run them upstairs, but you’re not moving my cadet from my infirmary.”

Gabbiani opened her mouth to object again, but a colleague caught her eye and shook his head. She huffed. “Very well.”

“Move him to Suite 4,” Sephiroth instructed, and the medics obliged. He watched as the cadet was settled in the next room over, so as to make sure that Science didn’t sneak him upstairs on the sly. Sephiroth leaned his back against a wall casually, folding his arms across his chest to keep them from shaking—the protracted power drain from Gravity had taken more of a toll on him than expected. He had never had to sustain the spell for so long before. 

Njeri returned, Tseng in tow behind her. Sephiroth regarded the Turk wanly, wondering whether he had orchestrated his entrance after the action was over purposefully. It was probably a blessing, the Turks would have ordered the cadet terminated. Sephiroth did not trust Tseng not to have an itchy trigger finger when it came to cleaning up a situation that had gone awry unexpectedly. 

“We’ll take care of the full investigation,” Tseng promised, his discerning gaze sweeping the scene before him, taking in the destroyed surgery suite and the bloodstained cadet. 

“Isn’t there enough on your plate already?” Sephiroth asked. 

Tseng smiled, showing a hint of teeth. “It’s been rather quiet in Midgar lately, so happy to lend a hand. I know you must be busy with all your investigations.”

Sephiroth frowned. “Indeed,” he said simply. That was all Tseng was going to get from him. He turned to Njeri. “I want to know if this was just an unusual reaction or if there’s something else going on.”

Njeri nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And I want all mako injections put on hold until we understand what happened to Cadet, ah…”

“Roche Hoffman,” Njeri supplied. 

“Until we understand what happened to Cadet Hoffman.” Sephiroth searched his memory, that name was extra familiar to him. Oh, Hoffman was the SOLDIER Sephiroth had selected as the final entrant. 

“Aye.”

Njeri and Tseng stepped aside to organize investigative efforts, leaving Sephiroth and Kunsel to oversee everything else. With the scientists busy, and the Turk occupied, that left Sephiroth and Kunsel alone momentarily. 

He put his hand on Kunsel’s shoulder and felt it quiver. Sephiroth recalled that Kunsel had taught Cadet Hoffman as a PSD recruit. Hoffman was lucky to be alive, he had fought for it. There were others in the past who had bad reactions to the mako serum, who had slipped into death much more quietly, without warning. From the way Hoffman had struggled against Sephiroth’s Gravity, he did not think that the cadet would die now. 

“I’m sorry,” said Sephiroth nonetheless, knowing that though Hoffman had scraped by with his life, he might never fully recover from the ordeal. Only time would tell what long-term effects the poor cadet would have to suffer. 

Should he have picked the other candidate? It was impossible to predict how anyone would react to the mako serum. Sephiroth couldn’t even remember the other candidate’s name, all that was left of him was a vague impression of sharp blue eyes and a head of blond, spiky hair. 

“You have my leave to stay with Hoffman if you wish,” Sephiroth said.

“Thank you,” Kunsel murmured. 

Sephiroth watched him go into Suite 4, offering his help to the medics in getting Hoffman—naked and covered in blood and mako—cleaned up. 

So there were others carrying Angeal’s legacy forward after all. Sephiroth allowed himself a sad smile.

* * *

Cloud spent the next few weeks holed up in his room after dinner. Most nights he was exhausted from the day’s duties. As a new private, he was assigned a variety of security tasks to give him a breadth of experience, but since there was no longer a war on, they were mostly miscellaneous tasks nobody else wanted to do, providing escort services to various Shinra teams—mako reactor maintenance, ground logistics, construction site crowd control. The most excitement he’d had so far was when he was protecting a returning unit from Fort Condor and got to see some action against a herd of giant insects lurking just outside of the city. He’d managed to distinguish himself slightly in Sergeant Tyson’s eyes, if only because it was the first time he’d seen action since he’d graduated, and the bugs were nowhere as terrifying as the strange Wutai warriors who had invaded Sector 8. 

He spent the evening meals with the same group he’d grown close to as a recruit, staying quiet and almost falling asleep as they chatted around him. Cloud perked up immediately upon returning to his room. Over the weeks since he had first tried some makeup on, he’d been picking up more things every shopping trip into the city on the weekends—an eyelash curler, proper makeup remover, more lip liners and lipsticks, a shoulder-length straight blonde wig that had been on sale at a party store. Whatever time he had left over from his duties, often just a few hours in the evening, he spent trying to find the girl he had spotted in the mirror. It was like an archaeological excavation in reverse, the more makeup he brushed on his face—layering foundation, highlights, contour, and blush—the closer he came to her. She was blurry at first, a vague image, a hint of an impression of a person he knew must exist, but he didn’t know her, couldn’t quite picture her. What was she like? Did she like the same things he did? Was she shy and awkward like him? What was her name?

Cloud researched guides on how to paint his face properly, not just on Argenta’s forums, but elsewhere on the network, and not just from queens, but for girls just starting out too—Top Ten Tips for the Perfect Wing, Top Five Things Your Mother Never Taught You About Makeup. If Cloud was short on time some days, he worked on bits of pieces of his face, practicing just eyeshadow or blush. Gradually, his blending got a little smoother, there were fewer clumps on his eyelashes when he put mascara on, and he stopped getting lipstick on his teeth.

It was a Friday night, and yet again Cloud had declined an invite to The Sloshed Shoat from his friend in favor of spending a few uninterrupted hours in front of his mirror. He sat in silence with only the throbbing bass from his neighbor’s speakers next door for company. Cloud decided he was ready to excavate the girl he’d seen in one solid attempt. He laid out all the brushes he was going to use, the powdered blush and eyeshadow, all the foundation he was going to use for his base, highlight, and contour. He picked a lipstick, set aside some lashes, gathered all the rest, and got to work. 

The evening wore on, with Cloud unaware of the time passing as he worked on each part of his face like he’d been practicing. Hours later than when he started, he finished the final touches, adding a coat of gloss to give his lips some shine, and finally took a step back. 

Cloud blinked, getting a good look at his reflection at last. There she was, in the flesh, rosy cheeked and cherry lipped, with a dusting of dark eyeshadow. “Hello,” he said hesitantly, as if speaking in a louder voice might spook the girl in the mirror. 

She blinked back at him, as startled as he was by his discovery. A slow smile spread across her face—she was pretty, with her wide blue eyes and her shoulder-length blonde hair. She waved at him cheerily. 

“You’re kinda cute,” Cloud said. 

She pressed her lips together in a pout and frowned. How rude. Only ‘kind of’ cute? She was hella cute, and well on her way to being a knockout blonde bombshell if only he’d put in a few weeks’ more work. 

A knockout bombshell? The girl had to be kidding, he’d just found her and here she was, already having grandiose dreams of being the hottest chick around? Cloud studied her, and she studied him right back, her expression widening slowly into a superior, confident smirk. Her name was Clara Skye, and now that she’d been found, there was no burying her again. 

_Cloud Strife, you better get ready,_ she thought. _A pretty woman always gets what she wants._ She didn’t quite know what she wanted yet, but whatever she would end up deciding, there would be no stopping her. 

Except his day job, Cloud realized. He had to report for duty at seven o’clock even though it was a Saturday, and it was approaching midnight.

_Fine, until tomorrow,_ Clara acquiesced. In the meantime, Cloud had better pick up some more supplies on his next trip out. She wanted a sexy skirt, and a few pairs of heels so she could get used to walking in them—there was no way she was going to be wobbling all over the place on her first night out, whenever that was. 

Briefly, Clara considered snapping a pic for Roche, still her friend, even though it had been more than a week since the last time they’d texted. Nah, she decided. Let’s make it a surprise.


	16. Come Away

Sephiroth found Kunsel sitting beside Cadet Hoffman’s bed in the infirmary. The cadet had been in a coma for the past two weeks, but the doctors assured them there was brain activity, even if it was slightly abnormal. Other than the coma, there were no signs of physical injury left on Hoffman. The lacerations of his skin and the tearing of his muscles from his struggle against the Gravity spell had healed at the expected mako-enhanced SOLDIER speed. If Science had figured out what had happened, how his reaction could have been so extreme, they were being silent about it. Sephiroth hoped the Turks wouldn’t be, but it was foolish of him to put his faith in that.

The list of potential complications to a mako injection procedure was almost fifty pages long—headaches, muscle soreness, bleeding from the injection sites were amongst the most mild. Over the years, Sephiroth had seen everything from temporary insanity, epileptic episodes, and internal hemorrhaging to fatal multi-organ failure, though deaths were rare. If the cadet survived the side effects, they would largely heal over time, even those affected neurologically, though some healed slower than others, and some healed...wrong. Different. Never quite the same person as before, more volatile, childlike, or unpredictable. Most of them were never promoted beyond Third Class if they weren’t given a discharge. Genesis had taken a large portion of them in his departure. Sephiroth hoped his friend did not consider what he was doing to them a mercy. 

Sephiroth had been lucky, hardly suffering from anything during his process except a light headache and some aural sensitivity for a couple of days. Even Genesis had been out with a fever for a week. 

“What’s the prognosis?” Sephiroth asked.

Kunsel looked up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Severe retrograde amnesia. The doctors tell me he’ll be lucky to remember his name.”

“He’ll live,” Sephiroth said, realizing how bleak that sounded only after he’d already said it. “Chances of recovery?”

“They won’t be able to tell until they do more tests when he wakes up.”

“Let’s try to keep those to the minimum necessary.”

Kunsel nodded in agreement. No one found being poked and prodded by Science’s physicians pleasant, particularly not someone who might not remember where he was or why it was happening. “His reflexes and muscle memory are supposed to be intact though.”

So Hoffman could still smash Science to pulp if he wanted to. “It’s not all bad, then,” Sephiroth said. Maudlin humor wasn’t his thing, but from Kunsel’s answering smile, it appeared he appreciated the attempt at cheering him up. 

“Any idea yet what happened?”

“Tseng has called a meeting for five this afternoon. He better be telling me this is not an accident.” There had to be someone to blame for this, Sephiroth thought, rather than this being an accident, an unlucky roll of the dice. That had not been a normal reaction to the mako serum.

“What about the other cadets?”

“We’ll make that decision once we know it’s safe again.”

Sephiroth and Kunsel both turned as Lazard entered the room. 

“Director,” Sephiroth inclined his head. “What brings you here?”

Lazard smiled disarmingly, approaching the bed in his crisp pinstripe suit. “Just wanted to see the poor cadet who caused such a commotion the other week on my way to lunch.”

Sephiroth eyed Kunsel, and Kunsel eyed him back in unspoken agreement.

“I was just on my way out,” Sephiroth said smoothly. “I’m sure Cadet Hoffman appreciates the visit.”

“My pleasure,” Lazard replied, and turned to Kunsel as if he was Hoffman’s designated next-of-kin. 

Sephiroth made his way to the stairs at his usual pace, but once he was out of view of the surgery suite he hurried to a brisk walk. He had been waiting for a chance like this for days—Lazard out of his office and Laszlo gone too. Sephiroth withdrew from his pocket a special keycard that Chadley had programmed that would unlock Lazard’s office. Chadley would have to go back and erase the security logs after Sephiroth’s entry, but the android had insisted it was capable. 

The door slid smoothly open to Sephiroth’s hacked keycard. He waited a moment to see if there were any sounds emanating from the room—just in case Laszlo had had an early lunch and already returned—but there was no movement. Sephiroth walked in and went quickly to Lazard’s desk. The computer was locked, but if the Director had been involved in embezzlement of SOLDIER funds, the evidence was unlikely to be found on a company terminal, and more on a data chip or on his phone. Sephiroth slid out Lazard’s drawers, looking for anything out of place, hidden compartments, false bottoms, but all he found was a collection of pens and a modest array of stationery supplies. The man’s filing cabinet was similarly of little interest, full mainly with scribbled notes from meetings and old printouts of slide decks he had yet to get around to throwing away. 

Sephiroth kept one eye on the door, doing his best to put everything back in its place and not leave obvious signs that someone had rifled through Lazard’s things. Rummaging beneath a pile of datapads and folders, Sephiroth found a phone, a cheap burner that was supposed to be difficult to trace. It was code-locked, but he checked the battery panel to see if there was anything in the memory port. He pried the battery out, and beneath it, found two miniature data chips, neither of which was currently slotted into the phone itself. He pocketed them, put the phone back together, and shoved it back where he had found it. Finished with examining Lazard’s desk, he went to examine Laszlo’s. He repeated the same search— drawers, cabinets, and the surface of the desk—but was unable to find anything of note.

Deciding that fifteen minutes in the Director’s office was enough risk, Sephiroth tidied Laszlo’s files back to their original state. He went to the door to slip out again, hoping that what he had on him would contain enough evidence of Lazard’s financial indiscretion. He hadn’t decided yet what he would do if he found that. Report it to Heidegger? Turn it over to the Turks? Confront Lazard first? Sephiroth was still considering his options when the door opened and he almost bowled over Laszlo Blaise, on his way in. 

“Sephiroth!” the man exclaimed in surprise, as they both pulled up short and narrowly avoided an undignified collision. 

“Laszlo,” Sephiroth said, keeping his voice calm, even as his heart rate skyrocketed. “Apologies for almost running into you.”

Laszlo’s brows furrowed. “The same,” he responded politely, recovering quickly. “May I ask what you are doing in the Director’s office?” His voice turned frosty. 

“I was on my way to the relaxation floor and stopped by to deliver a report on Cadet Hoffman’s condition.”

Laszlo’s frown deepened.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sephiroth said, pushing past him before he could begin to ask more questions. 

He walked as calmly as he dared, not breathing a small sigh of relief until he reached the stairwell.

* * *

Tseng was already in the meeting room by the time Sephiroth arrived. Sitting beside him was his associate, a red-headed young woman by the name of Cissnei. The three of them nodded at each other in greeting as Sephiroth took a spot by the wall, leaned against it and folded his arms, eschewing the long meeting table entirely. He had seen that Hojo was invited to the meeting too, and preferred not to sit with the despicable scientist. Heidegger arrived next with one of his senior aides in tow, and Hojo a few seconds later. As they waited for Lazard to arrive, mundane pleasantries were exchanged around the table, while Sephiroth glowered silently from where he stood. When it was clear that Director Deusericus was late, Tseng nodded to Cissnei, who rose from her chair and strode out of the room purposefully. Sephiroth’s gaze flickered to the Turk, the unusual look that had passed between him and Cissnei piquing his interest. 

“We’ve discovered that someone was responsible for sabotaging the mako serum that was injected into Cadet Roche Hoffman,” said Tseng, opening the meeting as soon as the door shut behind Cissnei.

“As you know, the mako serum that is injected into SOLDIER isn’t pure mako, but is refined and modified for retention in the body,” Tseng continued. “The formulation is manufactured by the Science Department, but due to its biological components, has a short shelf-life, requiring it to be made to order before each intake of SOLDIER cadets are given their injections, a process which typically takes over 24 hours. The formulations are stored in a refrigerated room on the 64th floor, and is stable for only a week, even at cold temperatures.”

Tseng called up some blurry surveillance footage on the projector screen. It was patchy, with pixels missing and a few dropped frames, judging from the jumpy timestamp in the corner, but despite all this, it was unmistakably Laszlo Blaise in the video. He was in a cramped laboratory chamber with metal walls—Sephiroth suspected it was a walk-in refrigerator—surrounded by shelves stacked with petri dishes and steel counters with bottles and test tubes, half reagent storage facility and half lab bench. Laszlo was dressed in a white coat. He appeared to do a search of the shelves, before stopping in front of a row of large jars, stacked two deep. He took one away in each hand, and disappeared from the frame.

“What we don’t have footage of is what comes next, where Laszlo added a cocktail of toxins to those bottles,” Tseng said.

Hojo’s dry cackle interrupted the Turk. 

“Professor, would you like to comment?” Tseng asked.

“Pathetic,” Hojo sneered. “To think that mere chemical toxins could interfere with the effect of the mako serum.” The professor’s shoulders shook as he laughed quietly. 

The leather of Sephiroth’s coat creaked as he tightened his crossed arms, and turned away from Hojo, controlling his features so as not to let his distaste for the man show. 

Tseng fast-forwarded the surveillance footage. Laszlo returned, took two more bottles and disappeared, and did so one more time until six in total had been taken and returned several minutes later.

Heidegger studied the video in silence, thoughtful. 

“Where does this footage come from?” Sephiroth asked. 

“We’ve had to reconstruct it from incompletely wiped backups, hence the patchy data integrity,” Tseng replied. “We have also analyzed nearby surveillance camera footage, and have confirmed that Laszlo entered the labs on the 64th floor. We believe he reactivated the credentials to a departed employee in order to gain entry.”

“Hmph,” Hojo frowned, the lines on his face turning downward with disapproval. “Ignorant security filth, can’t even do their jobs properly.”

Heidegger bristled. “We’ve already got a new system in place,” he said with a growl, but stopped short of picking a fight with Hojo outright.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Hojo sniffed, but he let the rest of the sentence dangle as if he did not have a high opinion of Heideigger’s intellect. “Everyone has their own unique strengths.” He turned to Sephiroth, but Sephiroth refused to meet his gaze and gestured for Tseng to continue.

“Half of the mako serum was stored in another cold room that Laszlo was not found to have accessed. We took samples, and those were free from the toxins when we tested them.”

“That could be due to pre-tainted bottles that weren’t washed properly,” Heidegger pointed out, defensive since Laszlo’s actions in the video implicated Lazard, who reported up his chain of command. 

“That is a possibility,” Tseng admitted. “But it begs the question why he was in the cold room in Science when he should not have access to the 64th floor.”

That shut Heidegger up, who sat back in his chair, more worried than resentful, which meant he was going to be cooperative. 

“To be extra certain, we tested Laszlo Blaise’s desk, and have found minute traces of the same toxins.”

Sephiroth tried to imagine what would possess Laszlo Blaise to do such a thing as try to poison the mako serum. Laszlo had been Lazard’s personal assistant for years, and was a loyal, lifelong Shinra employee. Sephiroth had spent the past couple of days, while Cadet Hoffman was recovering, drawing up new training schedules for the rest of the cadets, discussing how to proceed cautiously with further SOLDIER injections with Lazard and Laszlo both, when the latter had been behind it all along. There had never been a hint of fear or guilt in Laszlo’s manner. Sephiroth concluded that this must have something to do with Genesis and Lazard’s embezzlement from SOLDIER to fund Hollander, but even Lazard’s motivations for such a move were murky. Sephiroth glanced toward the door. Tseng had sent Cissnei after Lazard, that was no ordinary escort. 

“Questions?” Tseng asked. 

“Where are Lazard and Laszlo now?” said Sephiroth. 

Tseng took his phone from his pocket. They waited, tense, as he dialled a number. “Sit rep.”

“We’ve managed to secure Blaise, but Director Deusericus appears to have left the building some hours ago,” came Cissnei’s voice from over the phone. 

“Put Reno and Rude on it,” Tseng instructed. “And bring Blaise up here.”

“Understood.”

Sephiroth shifted his weight uneasily, sharing a glance with Heidegger. He did not like Heidegger, the man had spent too much time away from the battlefield and too long as President’s Shinra’s trusted confidant and enforcer. Heidegger played the President’s politics first and foremost, and had abandoned his roots as a soldier. Heidegger was the reason that Sephiroth hadn’t gone up the chain with his suspicions about Lazard’s involvement with Hollander’s funds. Heidegger would be immediately suspicious of a power play and would likely sweep any wrongdoing under the proverbial rug, even though Sephiroth had never given off any interest in becoming a Shinra administrator. He’d only taken over more responsibilities as a result of the personnel shortage, but Heidegger didn’t see it that way. Sephiroth needed much more evidence than what he had right now. Lazard’s data chips in his pocket, which he hadn’t had the time to give to Kunsel yet, weighed heavily on his mind.

The door burst open and Cissnei came through, flanked by four PSD privates, two of whom hauled Laszlo Blaise between them. He was disheveled from a scuffle and had lost his glasses, his normally clean and tidy appearance ruffled, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. There was the beginning of a bruise on his cheek, spreading over his left eye and starting to swell. He didn’t struggle as he was shoved into the room, though he stumbled from the force of the push. He righted himself proudly, and glared at all assembled around the table, saving his most baleful look for Sephiroth, still resting against the wall. 

Sephiroth regarded him back with a stony gaze, his spine stiff as he tried to temper the anger rising inside of him at the horror of Laszlo’s crime. Hoffman was still in a coma from what the man had done. If they’d let the injections continue, Laszlo could have wiped out half of the intake of cadets, not to mention the staff who would have been in grave danger overseeing the procedure in the same room. Sephiroth had no lost love for Hojo’s department—by and large they were cruel and detached, and only few had shown him real kindness as a child—but he was not in the practice of sacrificing innocents.

“Laszlo Blaise, we have proof that it was you who sabotaged the mako serum in Cold Room Alpha the night before the first round of injections.” Tseng replayed the video for them again. 

Laszlo’s lip curled as he watched the grainy video, his eyes burning with so intense a hatred that Sephiroth was taken aback by how the ordinarily calm and polite man could be capable of such violent enmity. He directed his hate at everyone in the room—Tseng, Heidegger, Hojo, Sephiroth—not even sparing the faceless PSD security officers in their helmets.

“If I told you it wasn’t me, would you even believe me?” Laszlo asked, his voice hard, tinged with irony. 

“We have all we need,” Tseng said simply. 

As Laszlo’s crime had to do with company confidential secrets and the destruction of company property, there would be no public criminal justice. Shinra Company took care of such matters as internal business. The investigations, decisions, and punishments would be handled by the Department of General Affairs—the Turks, in other words. Even if a tribunal were to be assembled, Laszlo’s fate was already sealed. 

“Where’s Lazard?” Sephiroth asked, glowering back at Laszlo.

“He’s long gone,” Laszlo replied, a slow, triumphant grin crawling onto his face. “You’ll never find him.”

“I want a sweep of the entire city done for a man of Lazard’s description,” Tseng ordered. 

Cissnei nodded, and exited to make further arrangements. 

Heidegger looked around, the man’s features lined with annoyance. “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on with Lazard?”

“You’ll have to ask Sephiroth for that,” Laszlo sneered, before anyone else could answer.

Sephiroth stiffened as Tseng and Heidegger turned expectantly to him. Heidegger’s beady eyes narrowed. 

“It has recently come to my attention that Lazard has been using company funds allocated to SOLDIER to finance Dr. Hollander and the activities of Genesis’ army,” Sephiroth explained.

Heidegger’s expression darkened. “If that’s true, why didn’t you inform me?”

“I needed more time to gather evidence.”

“And that’s why you broke into the Director’s office today. If you hadn’t been so clumsy…” snorted Laszlo, scornfully.

“Sephiroth, is this true?” asked Heidegger.

“I went to Lazard’s office to search for evidence, and I ran into Laszlo on the way out. That is all,” Sephiroth replied. 

Heidegger sniffed. “You botched it,” he said, not mincing his words. 

Sephiroth bristled. 

“If you hadn’t alerted him, we would have apprehended him just now.”

Sephiroth wanted to retort that no one else was investigating the trail of funds from Genesis’ operations, but from the grim expression on Tseng’s face he realized that might not be true, so he held his tongue. Hojo’s shoulders shook with amused contempt at the proceedings unfolding before him. 

“So,” Tseng said, resuming command of the meeting. “It appears we have one saboteur, and one embezzler on the loose who we can assume is the mastermind.”

Laszlo snorted. 

“Since you seem to enjoy grandstanding for your audience so much, care to tell us your grand plan? If you don’t, it’s just going to be me and you, in a small room, until I get every single detail out of you.” Tseng smiled, sinister. “And I’m going to enjoy that.” 

Laszlo stared at them, one by one. Sephiroth gazed coldly back, while Hojo simply looked bored. “Grand plan?” Laszlo scoffed. “How about I tell you this instead—why do you think that even after the war there are still people willing to die to take down Shinra?

“It’s rotten to the core. Science, Security, SOLDIER, even the financial pencil-pushers in their cubicles trying to eke out every gil of profit. President Shinra thinks he owns the world from his family’s inventions, but it’s just deteriorated into greed now, as you force the world into submission while you turn a blind eye to the exploitation of the citizens in the undercity. President Shinra even turns a blind eye to the human experimentation that brought him his military might.” 

Heidegger rolled his eyes and groaned. “Not this tired old bullshit again.”

Laszlo spat on the carpet, a wad of phlegm landing not a few inches from the toe of Sephiroth’s boot. “Do you even know what you are?” he asked Sephiroth, his eyes blazing.

Sephiroth averted his gaze, he was not in the habit of responding to madmen. He already knew that his own childhood had been one big Shinra behavioral experiment conducted without his consent, he’d lived it after all. What was he supposed to do about it? Go rogue and create a clone army for revenge? And where would that get him except with more blood on his hands? 

“If you and Lazard think you can take out Shinra by taking out innocent cadets, I pity how far you’ve let your desire illude you,” Sephiroth remarked quietly.

Laszlo said nothing more, and Tseng decided he’d heard enough anyway. This was supposed to be a briefing, not an interrogation or trial. 

“Take him down to General Affairs,” Tseng waved his hand. “Someone down there will know where to take him.”

“Yes, sir!” Security saluted, tried to drag him out. Laszlo fought them, proudly walking on his own, unrepentant.

“That was an illuminating meeting,” Heidegger muttered as the door closed. He turned his attention to Sephiroth, a faint glimmer in his eye and a smile on his lips as he reached a hand across the table with an open palm. “Now, General Sephiroth, if you would please hand over all the materials you found in former Director Deusericus’ office today.”

Sephiroth was caught off guard by the abruptness of Heidegger’s demand before he realized that with Lazard gone, Heidegger was now directly in control of SOLDIER. “I haven’t had time to review the data. It could be irrelevant.” 

“Irrelevant to what?” Heidegger asked reasonably. “If it belonged to the Lazard, I’m sure the President will want to look at it.”

Sephiroth hesitated, trying to come up with a believable reason to continue holding onto it. 

“Don’t make me confiscate it. I’ve always respected you as a reasonable man, General.”

He stared at Heidegger, the man’s dark eyes gleaming with triumph. His time to finally bring SOLDIER under his command had come. Sephiroth’s mind raced through the options, but he quickly concluded that it was futile to resist Heidegger’s conquest—with Lazard’s departure, it was already done. Sephiroth could take the fight up to President Shinra, and even if he managed to wrest SOLDIER away from Heidegger, he would have to contend with the man making his life a misery by tossing administrative blocks in his way, slashing SOLDIER’s budgets and stymying him with red tape. Slowly, Sephiroth handed over the two chips in his pocket to his new commander. 

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” Heidegger grinned. He held up the tiny data chips in his hand to the light, examining them closely before turning back to Sephiroth. “In the absence of Director Deusericus, I am assuming temporary control of SOLDIER, until the President appoints an appropriate successor. General Sephiroth, you are hereby relieved of your duties as SOLDIER First Class for a seven day period and placed on administrative leave.”

“What?!” Sephiroth exclaimed. Heidegger had just thanked him and placed him on leave in one breath. “Heideigger, you—” he looked to Tseng for help, but the Turk avoided his gaze.

“Come now, you entered Director Deusericus’ office in breach of security protocol,” Heidegger continued. “You will need to be investigated officially to ensure you are not actually an accomplice of Lazard’s. Besides, with the Director’s abrupt departure, there’s bound to be some rumors of foul play on your end as part of a sudden power grab. Best to stay out of it until this whole deal blows over, don’t you think?”

Sephiroth glared in outrage at Heidegger. 

“You’ve been under quite a lot of stress lately, I heard. Think of it as some well-deserved R&R. Now, your company phone too, please.”

Sephiroth quivered, livid. There were cadets, Genesis remained on the loose, and there were still a handful of leads he was investigating with Kunsel. How dare Heidegger jeopardize all that so he could start consolidating SOLDIER as part of his Security empire. Jaw drawn tight, Sephiroth took out his company phone and slammed it down on the table. 

“I’m pleased you understand,” Heidegger said, schooling his face to a somber expression. He nodded toward the one remaining security officer in the room. “Please see to it that General Sephiroth is not disturbed during his departure.”

Sephiroth flushed. He had borne many indignities in his life, but to be escorted out of the Shinra Building was a new one. “Hmph.”

Sephiroth turned on his heel and strode out of the meeting room, security scuttling quietly behind him to catch up.

* * *

Zack sauntered to the station, on his way to the undercity. He felt a little guilty that he was skiving off work a couple of hours early, but he’d originally been scheduled to train with Sephiroth, who had been placed on administrative leave two days ago. A responsible First Class SOLDIER would have gone into the training room anyway and done the three hours of practice alone, but Zack was Zack, and Sephiroth would forgive him, probably, for wanting to go see Aerith. 

Zack had absolutely no idea if Sephiroth had a significant other—he’d never mentioned anyone—either current or an ex. Oh no, what if he hadn’t ever dated anybody and was a virgin? Zack considered that possibility for a moment before chastising himself for thinking about his commanding officer’s romantic life. It was definitely none of his business whether Sephiroth was a virgin, but for Sephiroth’s sake, he hoped not. It would be so disappointing to get in bed with the Silver General only to find out he’d never done it before. 

Zack sniggered to himself, turning to look out the window as the train approached the Sector 7 Undercity station. He sat bolt upright. He’d caught a brief glimpse of Angeal's face outside, and there were white feathers on the ground.

“We will soon be arriving in Sector 7, Undercity. The doors will open on the left side of the carriage. Please remember to take all your personal belongings with you when you leave the train.”

Zack scrambled up when the train pulled into the station, and piled out with the rest of the crowd. “Angeal?” he called, loudly enough that the nearest people around him gave startled looks and moved away quickly. 

The station emptied as the train pulled away, moving on its circuit to the next stop, Wall Market. Everyone had filtered to the exits, leaving Zack and a small handful still hanging out on the platform. He spotted a white feather near the far end of the stairs down, so pure they were faintly iridescent, and larger than any other bird’s he’d ever seen pecking about the city, but nobody else seemed to pay it any mind.

The feathers led Zack to an abandoned junkyard on the outskirts of the sector, near the wall which separated Sector 7 from the remains of Sector 6. Angeal alighted on the ground, the gust from his single wing pumping the air stirring up enough dust to make Zack cough. It was a dramatic entrance, which Zack hadn’t thought had been Angeal’s style. 

“Angeal!” Zack exclaimed, half with relief at seeing the man, who had been missing for the past three months, and half with frustration that Angeal had the temerity to show his face again. A part of him still wanted to give the guy a hug—thank the gods Angeal was alive—while another part of him remembered that he was still fucking furious. “What in the world are you doing here? What have you even been up to?”

“Working,” Angeal said with an apologetic shrug, as if he’d just pulled an all-nighter at the office and not been AWOL for weeks. 

“Working?!” Zack had the urge to punch Angeal, preferably in the face, but he didn’t think he had a high chance of landing the hit.

“Gotta pay the rent somehow, even in the slums.”

“That’s not fucking funny,” Zack said, hurt and disappointed. “You better have a damn good reason for showing up now or I’m gonna—”

“I’ve tracked Genesis and Hollander to Modeoheim.”

Zack covered his face with his hands. His chest constricted, but he breathed through it, forcing back the tears which threatened to spring into his eyes. “You’ve been tracking them this whole time? We could’ve worked together! You and me!”

“They would never have let me follow them if they’d known I was working with you,” Angeal explained patiently. 

“You still could’ve told me something.”

Angeal shook his head. “I’m sorry, Zack, but they had someone on the inside in Shinra. I couldn’t trust you not to leak it, even inadvertently. Any change in how you behaved, or what you did...they would have known.”

Zack’s frowned. “I can keep a secret.”

“Would you really have acted exactly the same if you’d known what I was doing?”

“I guess not. It’s still a shitty thing to do, though, leading me on and then leaving.”

Angeal nodded, acknowledging this fact. “I had to put the mission first, but if it means anything to you, I’m sorry I had to do it. Tell...tell Sephiroth that I’m sorry too, when you see him next.”

“Tell him yourself,” retorted Zack.

Angeal’s brows furrowed briefly before he pasted a smile on his face. Even Zack could tell it was fake. “I don’t want to get punched. He hits real hard.”

Zack winced at the memory of many bruises from his sparring sessions with Sephiroth. “I know. Wait, you didn’t tell him either?”

“No,” Angeal replied, looking regretful. “He would have let it slip too.”

Zack whistled. “Even Sephiroth, huh?” 

“Yes.”

“So now that you’ve told me...what’s up? Who’s the mole?”

“Care for a guess?”

Zack wrinkled his nose. Angeal was trying to teach him, even now. 

“Who is sitting on the most information in SOLDIER?” Angeal asked.

Zack gasped. “Kunsel!”

“No.” Angeal squeezed his eyes shut.

Oh. Sephiroth was out of the running, obviously, so it had to be someone even higher up in the chain than him. “Lazard?” Zack asked hesitantly.

Angeal gave a curt, confirmatory nod.

“But...he was also placed on leave two days ago,” Zack said, surprised that he’d gotten it right. 

“He was?”

“Yeah. Heidegger announced it to us yesterday.”

Angeal’s expression turned grave. “What about Sephiroth?”

“Same thing,” Zack replied. “Does this mean that Sephiroth is also working with Holl—”

Zack’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching chocobo carriage, the creak of the wheels on the path and the sound of the coachman whistling a tune. They were tucked away in a shadowed part of the junkyard behind a heap of twisted metal parts from various heavy diggers, but could still see it as it passed. 

Angeal gazed after it with an odd, wistful expression. For a second, Zack thought that Angeal might run, or fly, after it, but then he appeared to think better of it. 

“Who’s that?” Zack asked, curiously. He glanced at his old mentor, who was still watching it retreat into the distance.

“Argenta Rhodea.” 

“Huh?”

“You don’t know who she is?”

Zack made a moue. The name was familiar. “Oh right, she’s that drag queen that Kunsel’s super into!”

Angeal’s eyebrows lifted, surprised by that new piece of knowledge.

“Am I supposed to know anything about her?”

Angeal smiled, and shook his head with a quiet sigh. “No, I suppose not.” 

Zack could tell Angeal was keeping another secret, so he made an attempt at prying it out of him. “Is she an ex or something?” 

“No.” Angeal paused. The carriage was out of sight now, and he blinked as he turned back to Zack, as if awakened from a reverie. “But I like her.”

“You do?”

“She’s very good at what she does.”

“Huh. Yeah, Kunsel said that too. Wait, do you know her?”

Angeal smiled mysteriously, but said nothing.

Zack waited to see if Angeal would offer up any further information, but he didn’t, and Zack decided he didn’t want to know after all what Angeal had gotten up to in Wall Market in the past with drag queens at the Honeybee Inn. What happened in Wall Market was supposed to stay in Wall Market, after all.

“Anyways,” Zack continued, picking up his train of thought, “is Sephiroth—”

“No,” Angeal said firmly. He hadn’t even given Zack enough time to finish. “Heidegger must be consolidating power if Lazard is gone.”

“So what was Lazard’s deal, then?”

“Do people need a reason other than Shinra to want to take Shinra down?” Angeal asked. “But if you want the full details, you’ll have to get it from the Turks.”

“The Turks?”

“I let them know they might want to head to Modeoheim. They’ve probably sent a chopper by now.”

“Now? For me?” But he was supposed to be paying Aerith a visit. 

“Who else?”

“Uh, Sephiroth?” 

“He’s busy right now.”

Zack screwed up his face. “How the hell do you know that?” Overhead, he began to hear the faint drone of a helicopter.

“I know,” Angeal said enigmatically. “Anyway, see you in Modeoheim.”

“Wait, you’re not coming with?”

But Angeal was already gone, and the sound of the helicopter was growing in volume. Zack looked up and scowled as it approached and hovered overhead, lowering a ladder for him to climb. This was not how he’d envisioned the rest of his day going. At all.


	17. The Loneliest Girl

“You should go,” Aerith’s voice was quiet, she had her arms still wrapped around his shoulder. The quaking had stopped—Zack had exhausted every single tear in his body, but there was no telling when the crying would begin all over again. The bandage over the stitches on his left cheek was soaked, from where Angeal’s trident had cut him, and the healing tissue still faintly stung. 

“He’s the last person I want to see right now,” Zack said. He stared numbly down at the screen of his cell phone, and its message from an unknown number. It told him to meet up at an address in Sector 7, and was signed ‘Sephiroth’ at the end. Must be his personal number, and the address of his apartment or something like that.

“Why not?” Aerith asked. She soothed him with another squeeze, stroking his hair with one hand while she hooked her chin over his shoulder. 

“I dunno. What if he blames me for…” Zack trailed off. What if Sephiroth blamed him for failing to save Genesis, and for Angeal’s death? Those two had been the closest friends that Sephiroth had ever had. Zack had fought them both in Modeoheim, and now they were gone. 

“I don’t think he’s going to do that. He wouldn’t have sent a message to you if he did, right?” Aerith reasoned. 

Grudgingly, Zack admitted that his girlfriend had a point. 

“He must be very sad right now,” said Aerith gently. 

The back of Zack’s throat tickled, and his breath constricted with the threat of another onslaught of tears. He’d watched Genesis jump to his death, and he’d killed Angeal with his own fucking hands—the fucking asshole had made him do it. That wasn’t how the mission was supposed to have gone.

Firm but gentle hands stroked his back. Aerith took a seat beside him, her touches encouraging him to cry it all out, which he did, letting a wave of tears crash over him like a deluge at high tide. She didn’t say anything and merely waited, her own eyes prickling wet with sympathy, sharing his distress. When the sobbing ebbed again, Aerith wrapped him in another hug. She didn’t judge him, she didn’t tell him to stop or hush, she was simply there. 

“Who do you think is sitting with him?” she asked when Zack had plucked a tissue from the box on the floor and blown his nose. There was a pile of soggy used tissues on the floorboards beside him. Another joined the growing mass. 

“He doesn’t have any other friends,” Zack replied.

“Poor thing,” Aerith murmured. 

Zack’s own heart ached in sympathy at the thought of his CO sitting somewhere alone, with nobody for company as he mourned the loss of two friends who had seen him through the Wutai War, from beginning and almost to its end. If Sephiroth had wanted to be left to his own devices, he wouldn’t have sent a text. Zack hadn’t imagined Sephiroth as the type who needed companionship like everybody else—he was the Silver General, the perfect SOLDIER, aloof and professional, but of course that was a Shinra lie. That corporate image of him wasn’t the man that Zack had gotten to know over the past few months, staring with quiet contemplation into the sunset of the Sister Ray simulation, pouring every bit of his turmoil into their sparring sessions, as if it were his only outlet, the only way that Sephiroth knew how to feel. Zack sighed, and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. 

“I’ll go with you to Sector 7,” Aerith offered. “To make sure you don’t chicken out.”

Zack scowled at the jibe. “I thought you didn’t like the Plate, open sky and all.”

“I'll be fine with you there,” Aerith assured him. “It’s not like I’m going to be cowering the whole time.” She gave Zack a moment to collect himself, while she rose and dusted off her dress. “Come on.”

Zack sighed, and slowly they got moving. It took them a while to make it out of the undercity and onto the train that would take them topside to Sector 7.

* * *

Zack’s lip quivered as he saw the name of the brass plate in the center of the apartment door.

A. HEWLEY

Gods dammit, he’d thought the address was supposed to be Sephiroth’s place.

Aerith gave his hand a squeeze. “You can do it Zack.” Her voice had stopped trembling once they’d stepped inside the building, the view of the expansive dusky sky covered again by a roof over their heads.

Zack knocked softly, but there was no answer from within. The door was unlocked, and opened easily when he tried the handle. Zack slipped in quietly, Aerith in tow. 

“Hello? Sephiroth?”

“Zack?”

The apartment was dim, lit only by the fading light from the windows. Zack and Aerith made their way through the entryway and around the corner, into the living space. Sephiroth sat at one end of a long leather couch, his shoulders looking strangely thin without the pauldrons from his uniform. He was clad in a simple black shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark slacks. Zack had never seen him in civilian attire. The rest of the room looked almost lived in, a row of potted plants lined the windowsill which stretched from one end of the far wall to the other, overlooking the city. It was a miniature jungle, with tufts of leaves and clumps of ivy spilling onto the floor. The bookshelves on the adjacent wall were crammed full save for a single empty space that corresponded to the thickness of a book open on Sephiroth’s lap. The living room opened onto a kitchen which was spotlessly tidy; a single bottle of whiskey was open on the counter. There was an empty glass on the coffee table, and Zack guessed that Sephiroth had been drinking. 

It was almost too clean here, like the staged photographs of a real estate listing. Had Sephiroth been taking care of Angeal’s flat this entire time, watering his plants, dusting the surfaces, out of hope the man would return someday? Zack drew a shuddering breath, tears springing anew to the corners of his eyes. 

Sephiroth slowly lifted his head. “Who’s this?”

Aerith stepped out from behind Zack, and gave a polite bob of her head. “I’m Aerith Gainsborough. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh!” Zack hurriedly remembered his manners. “Sephiroth, this is Aerith. Aerith, this is Sephiroth. I guess you’ve probably heard of him. He’s kind of my boss, and also my friend.” Actually, he’d never checked with Sephiroth that they were friends, but those things didn’t need official confirmation, right?

“Apologies if I don’t rise to greet you, Ms. Gainsborough. It has been a difficult two days. Please, sit.”

“It’s okay,” said Aerith with a gentle, knowing smile. “Don’t apologize. I completely understand. I’m just here to drop Zack off.” She glanced at Zack, and gave him a little shove toward Sephiroth. “I should probably get going. You two will have things you want to talk about.”

“Are you sure you can make it back?” asked Zack awkwardly. 

“Of course I can! Who do you take me for?” snorted Aerith with a roll of her eyes. She gave Zack another shove into the room, and waved goodbye, shaking off Zack’s further attempts to help her get back home to the slums. 

The front door closed quietly behind her, leaving Zack alone with Sephiroth. He’d never seen Sephiroth’s eyes look so red-rimmed, a strange contrast to the mako saturated in his viridian irises. Had he been alone with his grief for an entire two days before reaching out? Gods, Zack felt like such a dick. 

“So this is Angeal’s place, huh?” 

“He’s never invited you over?” Sephiroth’s voice was soft and distant, like he was lost in memory or already partway to closing himself off from the loss. He and Zack both, Zack thought.

Zack shook his head. “You guys must’ve hung out, though.”

Sephiroth’s mouth twitched, a smile both sad and bitter. “He always threw a winter solstice party for the three of us. He’d invite us over after spending the whole morning cooking.” Sephiroth motioned toward the kitchen as if Angeal could be found there now, bustling around the countertops and fussing over something roasting in the oven. 

“I can see that,” Zack said. He remembered all the times when Angeal had brought leftovers for lunch, and the mouth-watering aroma that emanated from his food. “He was a damn good cook.” Angeal had once packed some extra and given some to Zack, who’d thought he was gonna pass out from the flavor after just one bite. It had been hard going back to eating Shinra slop the day after. 

Sephiroth’s smile widened, sadness receding for a brief moment. “Yeah. He always went all out for us. Shipped ingredients from the most exotic places to try out new recipes. And when we’d stuffed ourselves, we’d sit on the sofa and watch the four-hour director’s cut of the _Loveless_ movie.” 

“Really?”

“It was our thing. Genesis’ thing, really, but it became our thing,” Sephiroth said wistfully. “After a couple of years, Angeal and I stopped suggesting a different movie.”

Zack pictured all three SOLDIERs piled onto the couch, glutted from food, watching a movie on Angeal’s TV and drinking just like they were a trio of regular guys, and not three of the most fearsome men in the entire world.

“You know what’s more annoying than Genesis quoting from the _Loveless_ epic?”

“Genesis quoting from the _Loveless_ movie?” Zack guessed. 

“And pointing out all the places where they changed the story or the lines,” Sephiroth added. “Gods. I miss—” Sephiroth stopped abruptly, and bowed his head. For a moment, Zack thought that maybe he was having a migraine, but then he realized that Sephiroth’s breath was quivering. All the things that Sephiroth remembered, they weren’t ever going to happen again, they were just going to remain relegated to memory from here on out. 

Sephiroth took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Zack,” he said after another long moment. 

“No, it’s okay. Look, I’m gonna miss the hell out of them too. Especially Angeal.” Even though he was a bastard whose final act was making Zack kill him. It had been premeditated too, Angeal must have known when he’d appeared in the undercity to tell him about Modeoheim. Zack would never understand why Angeal couldn’t have gone back to his plants, his kitchen, and watching _Loveless_ with his friends. It didn’t seem like that hard of a thing to go back to. 

It was getting dark as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, so Zack turned on the lights, because it felt particularly pathetic to sit in the blackness and cry with Sephiroth. The lights in the kitchen and living room flickered on. 

“I’m gonna need a drink,” Zack declared. Maybe the rest of what’s left in that whiskey bottle, he thought. There were also a few others sitting on top of the cupboards. Angeal wasn't going to be needing those anytime soon. “You want another?”

Sephiroth nodded once. 

Zack looked around for a glass. 

“The one right of the sink,” Sephiroth said. 

There were two whiskey glasses in the cupboard. Zack grabbed one, nabbed the bottle in his other hand, and brought it to the couch. 

They talked the rest of the night, sharing memories of Angeal and Genesis, reminiscing over all the happy times, the good times, the times that would never again be. They vented their anger, drowned their sorrows, and talked about all the things they wished could have happened instead, all the things they would have done if they’d known it would end like this. 

It was the small hours of the morning when they parted ways, when they’d exhausted Angeal’s alcohol and emptied the anguish within themselves, feeling hollow and numb, their shared grief a dull echo of the roaring torrent that had come before it. They only left Angeal’s apartment because they didn’t want to stay the night at a dead friend’s house. 

“We oughta go out for a drink sometime,” Zack suggested, as they rode the elevator back down to the lobby. “You know, maybe when we’re not gonna end up sobbing wrecks crying puddles at the bar. I’ll bring Aerith.”

“I’m sure she would have loads of fun,” Sephiroth replied. 

“You know what I mean,” Zack said, amazed that Sephiroth even had a dry remark in him. “Maybe I’ll ask Kunsel to join us too.”

Sephiroth’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he stared at Zack until Zack realized that he just insinuated setting up a double date with Sephiroth and Kunsel. 

“I’m just gonna shut up now,” Zack muttered. 

“Please don’t.”

Zack could barely manage to quirk the corners of his lips upward. “But drinks, yeah?”

“Drinks.” 

They parted ways, because Sephiroth revealed he lived just a couple of blocks away, so he was going to walk home. Zack secretly hoped his friend would let him crash on his couch, but no invite was forthcoming. The trains weren’t running to the barracks at this time of night, but Zack supposed he didn’t mind the walk. It would help clear his head anyway.

* * *

Cloud was on day two of the bedrest he’d been confined to for his injuries—a grade 2 concussion and three broken ribs. He had the feeling that Angeal Hewley had pulled his punches, otherwise he wouldn’t even be alive right now. Not even the Turk, Tseng—who was seasoned from the casual way that he’d talked with Captain Zack Fair—had stood a chance. First Class SOLDIERs really were something else. 

Cloud hissed in pain as he rolled in the pillows he was propped up in. The revelation on the helicopter ride that Genesis Rhapsodos—still alive, despite having been declared killed in action several months ago—already seemed like a lifetime away. The chopper crash and treacherous trudge through the snowy mountain passes to Modeoheim was already hazy in his head. His struggle against Dr. Hollander and against Angeal Hewley wasn’t very clear either, he remembered pursuing the scientist, and taking a hit so hard out of nowhere that he rebounded off something solid, probably a wall or a fallen chunk of rubble. Must be the concussion messing with his memory. And shit, his painkillers were wearing off. Cloud reached over to nab more pills from his nightstand and disconnect his phone from its charger. 

No messages. Cloud swallowed his pills, the last of his glass of water barely enough to wash them down with. He sank back into bed. Roche hadn’t responded to him in more than a week. Cloud wished he’d been able to ask Zack about a cadet named Hoffman, but he’d been too busy trying not to throw up on the helicopter ride, and then it had gotten attacked by a monster and went down in the mountains. The last time Cloud had seen Zack, he’d been sobbing over Angeal Hewley’s body in the rain. Cloud wasn’t even certain what had happened, but his best guess from the wounds on Hewley’s strangely decayed body, and the way the blood had pooled in the downpour, was that Zack had killed him—that Zack had had to kill him. 

Closing his phone again, Cloud dropped his hand to his side and waited for the painkillers to kick in. He couldn’t make sense of what he had learned on the mission—Genesis Rhapsodos and a secret clone army created by a Shinra scientist defector, they’d been behind the attack on the city four months ago, not Wutai rebels. White had streaked Genesis’ red hair, the skin on his face had been oddly loose and wrinkled, and a terrifying black wing had protruded from his back. Cloud hadn’t seen the battle between Genesis and Zack, but he’d gathered afterward from Tseng’s conversation with Zack that Genesis had committed suicide by leaping down the mako shaft at the abandoned excavation site, rather than be captured. Did that mean that the Wutai resistance was a lie that Shinra had fabricated to calm the populace, or was there still a very real and credible threat from insurrectionist forces in their former enemy? Why would Genesis and Angeal betray Shinra in the first place, hadn’t they been Sephiroth’s best friends?

As questions circled his brain, Cloud almost drifted back to sleep, even though it was only mid-morning. He was jolted out of a doze by the buzz of his phone. He patted his duvet, and found it buried in a fold. He flipped it open. It wasn’t a text, but a notification from Argenta’s Ardents for a performance tonight. She had been appearing at the Honeybee more frequently of late, which had fueled a storm of speculation on the forums about what in her personal life might have changed recently. 

Cloud’s fist clenched in his sheets. Did Sephiroth not know what had transpired at Modeoheim? What was he doing in Wall Market? Cloud’s heart sank at the thought of the Silver General receiving the news about the fate of his two friends. Cloud could not imagine the pain of losing two friends of a decade’s time in one fell swoop—he didn’t have anybody from Nibelheim he cared for, save for Tifa, but that was different. He’d had a crush on her. 

Cloud read the mail, and took a deep, painful breath. He had to go to Wall Market tonight. He had to go see Argenta.

* * *

Cloud snuck out of the barracks a little earlier than he would have left otherwise, he wanted to leave himself ample time to get to the station and down into the undercity. He had a little bit of makeup on, just some subtle mascara to make his eyes pop—they were his, or Clara’s, best asset—and a shiny coat of gloss on his lips, nothing too obvious. Clara had wanted to come along, but Cloud wasn’t brave enough to bring her. Maybe next time, Cloud promised himself, or the time after that. How nice would it be for Clara to be able to watch Argenta perform someday? Maybe Argenta would even notice her in the audience. Cloud indulged in the fantasy for a moment, before he shook his head and shrunk in his train seat, chiding himself for having the audacity even to dream of catching Argenta Rhodea’s eye. 

He was one of the first in the crowd waiting for Argenta’s carriage to arrive in the square, so to pass the time, he loitered in the bar across from the Honeybee Inn, sipping slowly on a soda. Alcohol was contraindicated for his painkillers, which he’d taken a double dose of before leaving the barracks. More fans filtered in as the afternoon wore on, and Cloud even recognized a few of Argenta’s fans from his first trip down here with Roche, including the one who had written the first makeup tutorial he’d read. 

When Argenta’s carriage arrived, Cloud pressed as close to the front of the crowd as his broken ribs would let him, his pills unable to dull the sharp stabbing pain as he was jostled in the crush. The door swung open, and Cloud was unable to help a swift intake of breath as an elegant black stiletto emerged, clicking dully on the cobblestones. Argenta Rhodea followed. Her platinum blonde curls were tucked under a kerchief wrapped around her hair, and large, dark sunglasses sat on her nose, obscuring her eyes and eye makeup entirely. Her body was wrapped in a faux fur coat that ended just below her knees, hiding the dress she wore underneath and revealing only the pale contours of her legs. Even her jewelry was modest—for a drag queen—a demure string of crystal drops dangling from her ears, small pinpoints of kaleidoscopic color that only served to highlight the bright ruby red she painted her lips. She was an image out of countless paparazzi photographs, a movie starlet hounded by fame, desperate to preserve her anonymity. Argenta’s manner was reserved as she grasped her rhinestone clutch bag closely to her, her demeanor starkly different from the usual command she held over her fans. She paused for only a moment to allow for pictures, before she turned and made her way inside the Honeybee Inn. She hadn’t blown a kiss, she hadn’t even smiled, before she was gone.

Cloud watched the entrance long after she disappeared from view, wondering what was going on in her head, if her neutral expression had been yet another facet of her performance, or if her silence had reflected something deeper within. There had hardly been anything projected on her face or in her movements, as if she was numbed and her audience deafened. 

He gave his name and phone number for the lottery, and then went to find the cheapest place to eat in Wall Market. He settled on a stall in a distant square far away from most of the town’s foot traffic, occupied mostly by middle-aged men in cheap suits, grabbing a quick bite before spending the rest of their money on the night’s debauchery. They ate their fried noodles and left quickly, leaving Cloud to make his way slowly through his dinner, and nurse another soda as he endured the glares of the grumpy proprietor.

It was long after dark, long after the revelry started, and Cloud was starting to lose hope of seeing Argenta when his phone rang from a private, withheld number. Cloud almost fell out of his stool and dropped his cell in his haste to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Cloud Strife?” 

“Yes, that’s me!”

“This is the Honeybee Inn calling. A seat has opened in the theatre. Are you still interested—”

“Yes! I’m on my way right now.” Cloud slammed a few gil on the counter. “How much time do I have before Argenta Rhodea’s on?”

“Her final performance is scheduled in ten minutes.”

“Thanks!” 

Cloud ran through the crowd, wincing as his cracked ribs complained from the mistreatment. He bumped into several people and had to shout apologies behind him as he kept barreling onward. He made it to the Honeybee with five minutes to spare, paid for his tickets, and was ushered into the theatre, still huffing from exertion, by a polite Honeyboy with a wide, amused smile. 

It was only the second time that Cloud had been in the expansive auditorium, with the house lights shining brightly and the chatter of the patrons at their tables. They walked past the rearmost rows, and then past the middle seats as well. Cloud swallowed audibly, his mouth gone dry as his Honeyboy continued to lead him closer toward the stage. Wait, where was his table supposed to be? They finally stopped at the table in the foremost row, smack in the center. Cloud looked around. The men and women sitting at the tables next to his were wearing expensive, lavish attire, smoking cigars and drinking champagne, and each had a Honeygirl or boy on each arm, while Cloud was alone, and only dressed in a t-shirt and his best pair of jeans. This was a VIP seat. They had ejected a VIP guest, and replaced whoever it was with some random, ratty blond kid picked out by lottery. Cloud wished he’d brought Clara after all, but it was too late for that. 

“Enjoy the rest of the show,” his Honeyboy usher murmured before leaving Cloud alone at the table. 

The lights in the room dimmed before Cloud remembered he ought to order something, but the Honeyboy had melted back into the crowd, and the audience began to hush in anticipation. A shadowy figure materialized at the back of the stage, a silhouette of black against the gloom of the auditorium. Argenta Rhodea stepped forward to the slow introduction of the song, a spotlight in front and center stage illuminating steadily, awaiting her stately approach. 

There was a collective intake of breath as she finally stepped into the light. Her delicate features were partially obscured behind a sheer curtain of intricate ebony lace that cascaded to her bosom. Behind the veil, thick dark curls were visible, tightly pinned and coiffed, falling only as far as her jawline. Her strapless gown was all black satin, clinging tightly to her body, and accentuating the shape of her breasts. Dark crystals glimmered like long, spectral fingers wrapped about her thin waist, where a slit in her dress revealed the planes of her thighs and hinted at the curve of her hip. Generous folds of fabric billowed about her legs and pooled elegantly around her feet, spilling onto the stage like viscid waves of ink. Nobody had ever seen Argenta Rhodea dressed like this before—black hair, black gown, the peep of a stoned black shoe amidst the sea of cloth—the vision of her before them a stark antipode to her usual, luminous self. 

Cloud had to force himself to breathe, stunned by the shock of this new revelation of her beauty. She stood in the center of the stage, facing the audience, an aristocratic lady in mourning, elegance and tragedy personified as she clutched a single red rose between her fingers. The image of her was enough for Cloud’s heart to start breaking, not to mention she was only a few steps away from him, within arm’s reach. This close, Argenta Rhodea was more arresting than even in his dreams, her soaring, statuesque figure filling his sight, just as her presence filled the entire theatre. 

The first verse started quietly, and the rest of the stage remained dark save for the sole spotlight illuminating Argenta. Grief itself was draped across her body, in the form of her veil and her gown, in the sable gloves which reached beyond her elbows and clawed toward her bare shoulders, as if she’d plunged her hands in her own sorrow, and it had started to consume her. Shadows flickered in the tenebrous pitch behind her and Cloud dismissed them as the afterimage of Argenta from the brilliance of the spotlight before he realized that they were faint holographic projections emerging from the darkness. They danced around her even though she was still as she sang, transparent spectres that doubled and tripled her image when they overlaid themselves on her form. They grew in number and substance as the song crescendoed to its first chorus, and Argenta lifted her veil from her head, revealing her face in full. She had drawn her brows dark, and her eyeshadow was similarly severe, spread of monotone greys blending into the harsh black lines she used to shape her eyes, the only trace of color thin streaks of scarlet at the edges of her wingtips. Even her lipstick was several shades darker than it usually was, a deep, sanguinous red in the center and darkening further at the edges. The pins holding her hair fell out as she tossed her veil into the audience, and her ebony tresses tumbled free, curls bouncing with pleasing contrast against her pale shoulders. 

The song she was performing to spoke of trials by fire, new beginnings, and rebuilding from the ashes of a cataclysm. Its lyrics were meant to be inspiring, empowering, but they were hauntingly inverted by Argenta’s anguish—the quiver of her lips, the smouldering despair in her gaze, and the tormented gestures of her arms, as if she had already crumbled on the inside and was verging on breakdown. It was the first time that Cloud hadn’t seen Argenta dance, that Cloud hadn’t seen any Honeyboys or girls share the stage with her. She was alone on the stage, accompanied only by the translucent apparitions of herself, ghostly reflections still circling her as the song continued. She crushed the rose in her hands during the swell of the second chorus, ripping the flower from its stem. A sudden gust blew from nowhere through the theatre, and Argenta threw her arms wide, releasing the petals into it. They swept through the auditorium, as light as leaves in an autumn gale, eliciting an appreciative gasp from the audience. A petal landed on Cloud’s table, but he didn’t notice it, his head tilted upward, his gaze transfixed by Argenta Rhodea, his jaw dropped open in awe. 

One by one the spectres disappeared as the melody continued its inevitable advance. She had started the song with a phantom company surrounding her, lining up behind her, making her a many-armed goddess of mourning, but one after the other they dimmed and disappeared as if seeking escape, leaving Argenta Rhodea behind. 

There were only two holograms remaining by the last verse, moving slowly and sluggishly, exhausted despite Argenta’s growing desperation. She tore off her gloves, each one accompanied by more wind, releasing a storm of more rose petals into the theatre. For a moment, Cloud thought he must have missed the rhinestones she had placed on her cheeks, until he saw that they were moving downward and realized that those weren’t glitter—Argenta Rhodea was crying real tears on stage. 

Cloud clapped a hand around his mouth, heaving a sudden, shuddering breath that started deep in his chest and radiated outward. He had to force another breath through his nose to keep from crying out involuntarily. He blinked and felt his own tears beginning to shed, Argenta’s grief so immense that it had pulled him into its gravity, threatening to rip a sob from his throat. 

Argenta’s entire body was trembling as the song ebbed to a close. Her black eyeliner was beginning to run down her face, dark stains carved through her impeccable makeup, though she still looked exquisite, as if even her tears were artfully shed. The music faded out and the final two spectres disappeared, leaving Argenta utterly abandoned, solitary. The spotlight lingered on her as the silence stretched on and she stared into the distance, at something far away, perhaps in her memory. Finally, the light dimmed and the theatre was cast into darkness again. 

A few hesitant claps finally broke the stillness, slowly gaining in volume, joined by more and more of the audience until it turned into raucous applause and whistling. Cloud bent over his table, one hand still wrapped firmly around his mouth, the other fisted in his jeans as he tried and failed to quell the quaking of his shoulders. The clapping was so loud it hid the sound of his weeping, and went on for so long that Cloud was able to calm himself enough to wipe his eyes with the back of his arm. It came away a black smear. His mascara was running, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not after Argenta Rhodea had laid bare all of her heart on stage. 

Cloud had wondered earlier in the day if the reports of Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley’s deaths had reached Sephiroth yet, but he wondered no more. Sephiroth was not known to have any other friends, with the both of them gone, there was no one with him any longer. Cloud’s eyes pricked again with the tears, at the thought the Silver General, at the thought of Argenta Rhodea, left so alone. 

He rose from the table before the night’s dancing began, the Honeybee’s revelry unsuited to his mood. He couldn’t afford to drink here anyway, not even the non-alcoholic cocktails. He washed his face in the men’s room, wiping away most of the evidence of his runny makeup, his crying nowhere near as pretty as Argenta’s had been. 

On the back of the bathroom door, he noticed a small advertisement. It was an audition call for extra dancers for the Honeybee Inn’s Winter Solstice Spectacular show. It was a temporary, seasonal gig, requiring late afternoons and some weekend days for rehearsal. There was a height requirement for the Honeyboys which Cloud was too short for, but he did notice that he fell within the specified limits for Honeygirls. A date in two weeks’ time was posted. Cloud pulled out his phone, and snapped a quick picture before exiting. 

If there was no one to comfort Sephiroth through his loss, maybe Clara Skye could be there for Argenta Rhodea. It was such a presumptuous thought, but when did Clara aim only for the achievable? She had yet to show the world what she could do, and right now, it seemed like somebody needed her, and the possibilities were boundless. 

On the train back up to the plate, Clara Skye was already making a list in her head of all the things she would need to buy before the audition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my beta, [GhostofTasselhoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff), for her help with Argenta’s makeup. I am not terribly literate with cosmetics, so her assistance throughout this fic has been invaluable.
> 
> I will be eternally grateful to [mrborsch on Tumblr](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/) for two amazing pieces of art with [Argenta Rhodea as Shiva (from Chapter 6) and the scene from this chapter](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/post/635710571790106624/for-the-wintry-mizzenmast-s-ff7-drag-queen-au-a). The shading and coloring is out of this world. Please check it out and give them some love and reblogs.
> 
> Fans of RuPaul’s Drag Race will recognize the homage to Sasha Velour’s performance of “So Emotional” from the Season 9 finale. It is one of the most iconic moments in Drag Race herstory, so if you haven’t seen it, or if it’s been a while, [go watch it!](https://vimeo.com/228379337) I have avoided the most iconic rose petal reveal for obvious reasons, but also because that moment belongs solely to our queen Sasha.


	18. Lip Sync For Your Life

**ARGENTA’S ARDENTS**

For fans of the best drag queen in Midgar

**Performances & Reviews**  
 _This is the forum where attendees of Argenta’s shows can discuss her performances. There are spoilers here for those who have yet to see her live!_

**Topic: Last night**  
**Posted by HEYQWEEN88**

I know Argenta Rhodea is known for her intense, emotional performances, but even the morning after her final number last night, I still have the chills. My throat still closes every time I think about it, and I can’t believe I lucked out with the tickets I bought a year ago. 

It’s probably in bad taste to speculate what might have driven last night’s new number, but her sorrow wasn’t just palpable, it infused the room, it infused the audience, it infused _me_. I have never seen anyone pour out that much of themselves on stage. The audience was so stunned, I swear the silence after the music faded went on for a solid minute. I was moved to tears, even though I was sitting in the back. There was hardly a dry eye in the theatre, no matter where you were sitting. I think that Argenta cried too, though I couldn’t tell if that was from the sheer emotion of her piece, or whether she has just elevated her performance to art. 

Long live Argenta Rhodea. 

(More description under the cut.)

* * *

Sephiroth stole a glance at the array of monitors which made up an entire wall of Heidegger’s office. Security footage from the company’s cameras was on display, cycling through the Shinra building, as well as the interior of the mako reactors and the trains which ran across the city. Remote footage was piped in occasionally, from Shinra’s vast empire across all continents. News, mission reports, and police dispatches popped up an endlessly scrolling array of notifications, each new event pushing the previous further up the screen. 

Heidegger himself sat behind a row of four monitors arrayed on a long desk of dark, polished wood. His office was dimly lit, the light from his screens providing a significant portion of the room’s illumination. It gave the impression that Heidegger sat at the center of a vast network of information, but it scrolled past so quickly that he was certain the man was blind to most of what was happening, only able to glean a fraction of the quantity flicking by. As long as President Shinra saw the first image of Heidegger, however, it was unlikely any of his influence within the company would diminish. 

Heidegger had reinstated Sephiroth after a week’s leave, as promised. He hadn’t even received a minor slap on the wrist for breaking into Lazard’s office, as the data from the chips he’d stolen had yielded conclusive evidence of Lazard's misappropriation of SOLDIER funds and his collusion with Hollander. Laszlo Blaise, in Turk custody, had confessed that he’d committed his crimes with Lazard’s support, because gutting SOLDIER would eventually weaken the company’s influence around the globe, and undermine the elite unit’s reputation. It was part of Shinra’s punishment for fighting the Wutai war, for the quiet atrocities of the slums, for bleeding the planet dry—typical Wutai radical terrorist propaganda. With the tainted mako serum disposed of, and new sera manufactured and strictly tested, the rest of the injections were proceeding as normal, without serious incidents so far. Even Cadet Hoffman was starting to recover, but the medics were unable to say how much of his memory he would regain, if any, if ever. 

The meeting with Heidegger was a brief one, the man made it clear he had a busy day. SOLDIER was his to command now, but he had a lot of things on his plate, and with the death of both Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley, and Dr. Hollander in Shinra custody, he thought the unit in good enough condition to hand over to Sephiroth, at least on the surface.

“I have an excellent aide lined up for you,” Heidegger grinned from behind his desk, and called up a dossier on one of his screens. “Major Vivian Varma has served in the Public Security Division for over thirty years.” Heidegger listed her military accomplishments, from her participation in early Wutai skirmishes to her record as competent commander and administrator. “She’s been one of my top aides for five years, and I assure you, I’m giving you my best. You won’t have to worry about the day to day running of SOLDIER. I know budgets, meetings, and logistics aren’t your thing.”

Heidegger grinned as if he were doing Sephiroth a great favor, and not consolidating his hold on SOLDIER with leadership loyal exclusively to him. Major Varma was competent, at least on paper, but she had never served with SOLDIER. Inwardly, Sephiroth bristled at the audacity of Heidegger’s maneuvering. 

“I would rather we selected someone from a pool of candidates within SOLDIER,” Sephiroth said. “In order to rebuild the unit, we need—”

“And take a highly trained operative out of the field?” Heidegger frowned. “Turk intel tells me that though you may have found Genesis’ base of operations, he likely has others stationed elsewhere, and there is also the growing threat of Wutai terrorists to contend with. Tell me, do you have anyone with administrative experience like Varma?”

“No.”

“See?” Heidegger said, before Sephiroth could object further. “It will take a while for you to train someone into a competent aide. Though I respect your capabilities, General Sephiroth, your talents are better used elsewhere, are they not? Not even you are capable of doing enough work for two people.”

Heidegger spread his arms wide, the gesture of a very reasonable man. “Now, the President can rest assured that SOLDIER is taken care of. If you want to train up one of your own men or women to take up the position later, I support your endeavor. But for now, you need Viv. She’s very good. Let’s not worry the President any more than he already is.”

Sephiroth clenched his jaw, knowing that further protests would fall on deaf ears. “Understood.”

“Very well, it’s decided,” Heidegger declared, as if the two of them had come to that decision together. “I’m sure Varma is already downstairs in the former Director's office. You two will get along splendidly.”

With a wave of his hand, Sephiroth was dismissed. 

Major Vivian Varma was indeed already comfortably ensconced behind Lazard’s old desk. She was speaking in low tones with another man, who Sephiroth assumed was her assistant, in the way that Lazard needed someone to schedule his meetings and prepare his presentations. 

“General Sephiroth,” Major Varma stood when he entered the room, but refrained from throwing him a salute. Instead, she inclined her head. “I am Vivian Varma. It is a pleasure and an honor to work with you. I trust you have come from General Heidegger's briefing?"

“Yes.”

“And I trust you had an enjoyable week of leave?”

“As well as can be imagined,” Sephiroth replied. As well as can be imagined for being left out of the final operation to kill his best friends, and only learning about it only after the fact, and having to sort out the remainder of Angeal Hewley’s things in his apartment. As well as can be imagined when the only shoulder he could cry on was Zack Fair’s, and when that hadn’t been enough he’d had to go down to the Honeybee Inn and call on Andrea Rhodea. 

“My condolences on the loss of your compatriots,” she said curtly, as if repeating perfunctory phrases from a checklist she had memorized, just another task to complete before she could move on. She didn’t wait for his acknowledgement before she continued, showing him the work she had completed so far—a budget request for the next executive team meeting to make up for what Lazard had embezzled. She had also drawn up a list of missions, written a proposal for a new process of assigning field operatives to better leverage existing resources, and projected how many cadets they would need to admit to the program to rebuild SOLDIER within the coming five years. 

She moved on next to her vision for the elite unit and improving unit discipline. Lazard had not served in the military and had been unsuited to running SOLDIER, but Varma promised that within the next two weeks she could operationalize a regimented training program that took into account the personal strengths and weaknesses of each operative. Varma wasn’t asking for his input, Sephiroth realized, as she continued down her mental agenda. She was briefing him just as Heidegger had just briefed him. She had already decided, and as a kindness, or perhaps a matter of stakeholder management, she was letting him know. 

When Varma finished telling him everything she needed to, Sephiroth went back into his office. It had been rifled through, his monitor moved, his files searched and replaced. Nothing he owned here was his, it was all company property, save for himself, and even that was debatable, he thought humorlessly. Not even SOLDIER was his no matter how much time he had poured into it—it had never been his to begin with. 

Sephiroth checked his calendar, surprised to find it nearly empty. He had the occasional training session with Zack and the Seconds for Octaslash over the next few days, but otherwise, it appeared he was available. To do what?

Sephiroth closed his eyes and relaxed for a moment in the silence of his office. He yearned to be back at the Honeybee Inn, the only place where he was truly free. And now there was nothing to keep him from going.

* * *

Clara Skye forced herself to keep her head up and stare straight forward as the doors to the train opened and she stepped inside. It was a long ride to Wall Market so she found a spare seat, gathered her tote bag into her lap, as many of the other women did their purses, and clapped her thighs shut tightly. She was not very good at tucking yet, so she was only loosely tucked for now, and she didn’t want anybody peeking up her miniskirt and getting an eyeful of her boy bits. Surreptitiously, she studied the other girls, looking to copy their body language, the way they flipped their hair over their shoulders, the way they cocked one hip out when they stood talking to their friends. Clara would have to remember that one when she was standing in line for the audition. 

She kept telling herself that people were staring at her because she was pretty, and not because she looked like some boy who had gotten into his mom’s makeup stash. Clara had been practicing her makeup for a whole month now, she looked better than that. Just to be sure, she pulled a small vanity mirror from her bag. She looked at herself, glanced at the other girls in the train, and then back at herself. Okay, she had a little more makeup on than the other girls—her lipstick and eyeshadow were darker, and her boobs a little too perky, but it couldn’t be helped now. The bangs of her wig fell almost to her eyebrows, and it was a shade lighter than a natural blonde, but hey, there were plenty of bleached blondes out there. Or at least, there used to be. 

“Nobody’s clocking me,” Clara muttered under her breath. She put the vanity mirror back, and squared her shoulders—chin up, stare forward. 

She continued to repeat it to herself as a mantra even as the train pulled into the Wall Market station. She exited and picked her way carefully through the streets and their uneven flagstones, covered in dirt and the refuse of the previous night’s debauchery. Clara breathed a sigh of relief that she’d worn a chunky heel down here, instead of something thinner. She had no idea how Argenta walked in stilettos on terrain like this.

Hordes of aspiring Honeygirls and Honeyboys alike were already queueing up outside of the Honeybee Inn. Clara refused to think about how bad of an idea this was—to audition as a Honeygirl even though she had no dance experience. Being on stage was different to all the drills she’d done in training camp, but what was the worst they could do to her? Say no? Kick her out? Rough her up in the back alley? That was ridiculous, and even if someone was going to get a bit handsy with her, she wasn’t afraid to get in a fight. Clara put out of her mind what sort of activities usually transpired in dark Wall Market alleyways. She signed up at the registration table, and filled out some basic information on the form, grateful that at least she didn’t have to lie about her age, since she’d just turned seventeen at the beginning of the month. She pretended she had a bit of a cold when they gave her a number and confirmed her name. 

Clara was told she could warm up inside until her number was called. The foyer was packed with other hopefuls, already changed into their leotards and tights, stretching on the floor or against walls. Some girls had half-empty water bottles sitting beside them, and Clara wondered how long they'd been waiting there already. She had purchased a cheap dance outfit at a store, but didn’t want to change into it quite yet because she wasn’t confident she could hold a tuck for more than an hour without great discomfort. What if she had to wait for two hours or more? Clara sighed, realizing that when she purchased her leotard she should have also bought a loose pair of shorts to wear over her dance clothes. 

She was still debating what to do when the girl she was staring at got called to audition along with nine others. Quickly, Clara took up her vacated space, and thought she might have a seat and wait out some time before changing. She received a few strange looks from a woman across her who was stretching in the splits, her toes pointing as she leaned forward to rest her forehead on the top of her leg.

She could do that too, Clara thought sourly, wondering how she ought to warm up. The key was timing, getting changed just close enough to when she was called that she could do some quick stretches and make it through the audition without getting testicular torsion. Anxiously, Clara whittled away the better part of an hour trying to decide whether she should change now or keep waiting for more time to pass, until she saw the girls emerge from a side room, looking dispirited. Clara watched them all leave, determined to think of their rejection as more opportunity for her, and not as the Honeybee’s high standards. 

Deciding that enough time had passed, Clara went off to the bathrooms to get changed. She was just shimmying out of her miniskirt when she heard her number called faintly through the door. 

“Shit, shit!” Clara hissed. She thought she’d had more time, and now she had none at all. She tucked as quickly as she dared, gently easing her testicles up into her inguinal canals and hurriedly taping her cock between her legs. She pulled her tights back up—all three layers of them—and jumped into her leotard. She almost forgot to readjust her boobs, one was drooping lower than the other, and would have missed it if she hadn’t glanced in the bathroom mirror on the way out. 

“Last call, number fifty-three!” a woman called into the foyer. 

“That’s me!” Clara raised her hand. “Sorry.”

The woman blinked at her, gave her a quick once over, and then motioned her to follow. What kind of look was that? Clara’s brow creased with annoyance, but she trailed the woman nonetheless to a rehearsal studio downstairs. 

For their first audition, they would have to learn some group choreography, along with a short improvised performance, where they could show off their skills. Their instructor introduced herself as Miss Kelly—a tall, lithe woman with kind creases at the corners of her eyes, and her long, brunette hair pulled back in a functional bun. Clara noticed the prominent curve of an Adam’s apple at her throat, but that did not affect how she thought of her. Aside from her, there were two others sitting off to the side of the room, watching them closely, clipboards held at the ready. They looked stern and serious, even though they wore casual clothing. Clara supposed that their jobs were to find only the very best dancers to progress onto the rest of the audition process. 

More strange looks were directed Clara’s way as they spread out in the studio. So, she was a little bigger around the shoulders than the average girl, but by no means the tallest there. She breathed a sigh to center herself. She had this. Miss Kelly went through the choreography fast, showing movements only once or twice at most before moving on. They went through complex formation changes, moving from lines, to circles, to wedges, and other geometry that Clara wasn’t sure had a name. She had to be aware of where to move, how fast and when, and make sure she was in the right place relative to the other dancers while still executing the correct steps. It felt a little familiar, like doing drills, only instead of barking at the girls, Miss Kelly barked out time to keep them on the beat.

Toward the end of the group performance, Clara felt her tape begin to slip. Of all the times for her balls to drop, Clara thought. She pasted a smile onto her face, determined not to change her expression even as her right testicle slid free. It was now inconveniently placed so that she squished it whenever she moved her right leg a certain way, which was all the time, since she was dancing. 

Clara was grateful when the improv section started, but instead of being able to scurry off to the bathrooms to fix her tuck, like she’d hoped, they all had to stay in the room, ready to dance when their names were called. At least she could stand still when the other girls were dancing. She’d originally envisioned doing a more energetic improvisation, with some high kicks and a jump into the splits, but that was either going to squash her poor ball into oblivion or cause the tape to come off entirely, so when her name was called, she ended up doing a thing mostly involving her arms and some hip movements that she made up on the spot. She finished it and went back into her place, still with that grin on her face, though she could feel herself going a little wide around the eyes from the agony.

“Good job, everyone,” Miss Kelly said finally when the session was over. She looked toward the duo with the clipboards, but they shook their heads imperceptibly. Miss Kelly turned back to them. “The Honeybee Inn would like to thank you for your time today, you may all leave.”

Disappointment and relief in equal measure flooded through Clara.

“Except for you, number fifty-three.”

All the girls looked down at the numbers pinned to their leotards, hoping that they were fifty-three, just in case they’d gotten their numbers mixed up. Clara looked down too, and then looked back up. Oh right, she was fifty-three.

The man with the clipboard and high, arched brows curled a finger at Clara. She approached hesitantly, ignoring the other girls who eyed her jealously. He had thick pink lips, curly dark hair, and a body that looked like it belonged in a gym, not in a dance studio. Clara wanted nothing more than to run to the bathroom and loosen her tuck, except to speak to this man beckoning her. She was almost too afraid to nurse that glimmer of hope in her heart.

“What’s your name?” the man asked. 

“Clara Skye,” she replied, her voice surprisingly even despite the pain.

“We need to have a talk with you. Wait outside until we call you, Clara.”

Slowly, Clara nodded. A talk just with her? A good talk or a bad talk?

“Good,” the man said, and then waved her off.

Clara bobbed her thanks, gathered her things, and then beelined for the bathrooms as quickly as her loose testicle allowed. She fixed her tuck, shoving her ball back into place and replacing the tape. She was too scared to change back into her miniskirt, since she didn’t know whether they wanted to talk to her or if they wanted her to dance for them again, so keeping the leotard meant staying tucked. 

The rest of the morning passed without further word, more disappointed girls and boys filing out the door past her, as she sat on the floor for the foyer in an unobtrusive corner, leaning backward against the wall and pulling her knees up to her chest. It was early afternoon before Miss Kelly emerged, seemingly for a break. She disappeared into a room marked for staff only and came out again a few seconds later with a bottle of water and a cheese sandwich.

“Here you go,” Miss Kelly smiled at Clara. “It might be a while before the boss is able to see you, so eat up.”

“Thank you.” Clara accepted the food gratefully, since she hadn’t brought anything with her. 

“No trouble. Good luck.” Miss Kelly waved and disappeared back into the staff room. 

Clara spent the rest of the afternoon waiting, and even when the final audition ended late in the afternoon, she was still left by herself. It was not long until the guests would start filing in for the evening. Clara ached all over, and she was definitely starting to regret not untucking when she had the chance earlier in the day, but just as she was about to go the bathrooms again, the man at reception finally came and retrieved her.

He showed her up the stairs in the back and led her down several richly carpeted hallways lined with small rooms on either side. He led her through a locked corridor, again marked ‘staff only—no entrance’ before stopping before another door, this one carved out of wood and more lavishly decorated than the rest. 

The man who sat behind the desk was middle-aged, crows feet lining an intense and thoughtful gaze. His hair was dark and shaved close to his skull, and his goatee, carefully trimmed, had but a day’s shadow growing around the edges. He wore a black suit, and a dark shirt underneath, the buttons undone far enough to reveal a smooth, toned chest. The man looked up from his computer screen. 

“Ah, you must be Clara Skye. Please come in. Have a seat.” The man’s voice was velvety and inviting, and put Clara at ease. She paused before taking a seat in an armchair on the other side of his desk.

“I am Andrea Rhodea, and I own the Honeybee Inn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

So this man was Argenta Rhodea’s drag mother. “Pleasure’s all mine,” Clara said faintly, trying to remember her manners, amongst the storm of questions she had in her head. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you why you auditioned for a role as a Honeygirl.”

Clara flushed, pinned to the spot by Andrea’s gaze as he learned forward on his desk to study her intently. It was the first she’d been clocked at all that day. “I...I’m not tall enough for a Honeyboy.”

“Plenty aren’t, but they don’t come in drag or as a girl. Are you a girl, Clara? If you are, you can tell me. There are people here who can help you.”

Slowly, Clara shook her head. She’d read some posts on Argenta forums from people who were trans, but that description didn’t quite fit her. 

Andrea looked thoughtful, treading carefully with the next question. “Then how long have you been doing drag?”

“Just a couple of months, mostly in my bedroom.”

Andrea nodded knowingly. “But why here of all places? If you want to start a drag career, there are plenty of bars in the undercity that might give you a chance.”

Clara bit her lip, unsure whether to tell Andrea the truth. She didn’t want to come off like a crazed, rabid fan in front of Argenta’s mother, but what else was she, since the very first time that Cloud had laid eyes on the Silver General on TV? Maybe the truth would help her case.

“I was in the audience at Argenta Rhodea’s last performance.” 

“Oh, so you’re one of Argenta’s fans.” Andrea’s tone was not unkind, but being a fan did not fully explain why Clara was here.

“Argenta’s saved my life twice,” she began, hoping that would help Andrea start to understand.

“Twice?” Andrea arched a sculpted eyebrow.

“We were getting mugged, my friend and I, by some guys from another sector. I swear they were gonna kill us. And then Argenta’s carriage showed up, and she took them out with her ice magic.”

Andrea’s expression turned skeptical, but he didn’t question the veracity of Clara’s story outright. “And the next?”

Clara swallowed. It felt wrong to say it—she’d been keeping Argenta’s secret for so long. But Andrea was Argenta’s drag mother, so in a way, Clara wasn’t revealing anything.

“During the attack on Sector 8...Sephiroth saved me and my entire squad.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “You know who she is?”

Clara nodded.

“How?”

Clara quickly explained what Argenta had said that night in Wall Market, how she’d obsessed over those words and that voice, and how she’d realized when Sephiroth had said the same thing in Sector 8. 

“Have you told anybody?” Andrea asked sharply, when she finished relating her story. 

“No.”

“What about her forums?”

Clara shook her head vehemently. There was enough steel in Andrea Rhodea’s voice, that she wondered what might become of her had the answer had been yes. “I would never do anything to hurt Sephiroth!”

“So is this a ploy to get closer to him?”

Clara’s hands twisted in her lap. Gods, she supposed it was, but that was putting it in the worst possible way. “No! I mean, yes, but…” Clara trailed off, looking for the right answer. “I was there when Genesis and Angeal died. I was assigned to the Modeoheim mission alongside a SOLDIER named Zack Fair. I saw what they were, I saw what happened. I know.” She took a deep breath, and continued softly, “I think I’m the only person who knows who Argenta Rhodea is and how her friends died.”

Clara watched as Andrea’s expression softened. “I saw her last performance. I saw how hurt she was, I could feel it. We could all feel it. I didn’t feel I could stand by and do nothing while Sephiroth, or Argenta, goes through this by herself.” Clara blinked tears out of the corners of her eyes. She realized that she’d risen to her feet while imploring Andrea, and sank back down in her chair, staring silently at the polished wood surface of his desk. 

Andrea Rhodea heaved a quiet sigh. “And what were you planning on doing once you’d gotten close to Argenta? How would you help her?”

“I...hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Clara admitted. “Just be there for her, I guess, if she needs somebody to talk to. I mean, does she even have any other friends who know about her?”

Andrea studied Clara carefully, and she returned his stare as best she could. She had nothing left to hide from him, not even that she was in love with Sephiroth and Argenta Rhodea both. 

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said finally, “but I’m not going to be able to open a spot as Honeygirl for you in the winter spectacular.”

Clara’s breath hitched in dismay.

“But,” Andrea continued, “if you want to debut as a queen at our shows, there is a chance I will make room for you, if you show me what you can do.”

Clara perked up immediately. “When?”

“Now.”

“Here?” balked Clara. “In your office?” 

“Where else? They’re getting the stage ready for tonight’s performance. Let me find you a song.”

Andrea found a popular tune that had been released last spring, something that had been everywhere on the radio.

Clara panicked slightly, as the music began to play from the speakers around the room, hooked up to Andrea’s computer. She’d never lip synced before in her life, except when pretending her toothbrush was a microphone when she was kid, or wiggling around in the shower when there was an earworm stuck in her head. Then the lyrics started, and Clara had no choice but to do it. She knew the words well enough. She pulled out everything she knew from having watched Argenta’s performances, and added her own saucy spin. She shook her hips, shimmied her shoulders, did some high kicks, and the only time that her gaze left Andrea’s was when she twirled around and when she turned and slapped her ass during the bridge of the song. She made up her own dance moves, copied a few from what Miss Kelly had taught them, and from what the other girls in the audition had improvised during their solos. 

Clara ended the song panting for breath, gulping great lungfuls of air. She’d used every inch of Andrea’s office as her dance floor, making up with energy what she lacked in technique. 

Andrea Rhodea’s applause filled the silence as the music stopped. “Well, Clara Skye, that was certainly something. I can’t make a decision now, but you have piqued my interest. I will give you another chance.”

Clara nodded, exhaling the breath she’d been holding. Okay, she could do another one. 

“Argenta Rhodea will be performing next Friday. You have one number to show me that you can continue to open for her.”

Clara gulped, both excited and terrified at the prospect of having a real performance—opening for Argenta Rhodea—for her final audition. “Okay,” she heard herself say, distantly. She was willing to do anything for this opportunity. 

“A word of warning before you go,” Andrea added. “If you end up hurting my daughter, or betraying her trust, believe me that when Shinra finds your body, they won’t even be able to use dental records to identify you.”

“Understood,” Clara said. 

Andrea smiled. “Good. See you next Friday, my dear.”


	19. Two Queens

Sephiroth let Major Varma set all the agendas for their meetings. The President had handed down orders for Heidegger to provide a new vision for SOLDIER going forward, and Heidegger had delegated that task in turn to Varma. Sephiroth was informed, of course, but only after Heidegger had approved the proposal she already drafted. 

Just to watch the Major squirm, Sephiroth suggested that he ought to be deployed on away missions, now that it seemed that the disparate elements of the Wutai resistance were beginning to consolidate. There were also remnants of Genesis’ clones wandering the continent, he reminded her. It was amusing how quickly Varma scrambled to find excuses why that wasn’t possible—he was needed here to train the Seconds, the missions were beneath the capabilities of his rank, who would lead SOLDIER in his absence. 

So, they were keeping him here purposefully, afraid that perhaps with Lazard still at large, he might be tempted to turn turncoat. Or maybe it was with him in the city, he and by extension, SOLDIER, were easier to control. It was wearying how little they trusted him, how much Heidegger played corporate politics instead of truly looking after the men under his command, but there was little Sephiroth could do about it. Heidegger’s takeover had the President’s support. Sephiroth was disinclined to attempt to wrest SOLDIER from him, lest he end up with all of Major Varma’s responsibilities, and he did not want to be the one to have to present on the rejuvenation of SOLDIER at an executive meeting. Varma was a frighteningly competent administrator, and keeping her meant that Sephiroth was able to make more time in the evenings for his continued investigation of Project G. Chadley had handed over a trove of information to piece together, and he now had time to look through it in detail. Since he was making time to review the Science Department’s nefarious experiments, he found he was also able to make time for other, more fulfilling endeavors. 

With his schedule open, and it being pointless to hang around the building if he didn’t have training to do or missions to oversee, Sephiroth decided to go home early. He relaxed by indulging in a hot bath, his long hair twisted and pinned atop his head so it wouldn’t get wet. He slid further into the tub, letting the heat loosen his muscles and the water cleanse him of his weariness of Shinra politics. He put the company firmly out of his mind as he tugged on the drain stopper and turned on the shower so he could shave his legs and his pubic area. He finished with a luxurious shower oil that emitted a faint almond scent, checking again with the sensitive pads of his fingers that his skin was smooth, that they could slide without a hint of friction past his thighs and down his calves before he turned the water off and stepped out, wrapping himself in a freshly laundered terrycloth towel. 

The first thing that Sephiroth did, upon entering his spare room, was to put some music on. He selected an old record he’d first heard in his youth, a dark and moody album sung by a smoky, crooning alto. It had been a favorite of one of Hojo’s scientists, Dr. Nightingale, who had been one of the few in the department who had been truly kind to him. She had shared her favorite divas with him, as well her favorite TV shows, and her favorite foods. She had been the one to explain to him what she would use his samples for, what her hypotheses were and how she would test them, making sure that he understood why he was there in the laboratory, when most scientists didn’t even bother. She had been one of the only ones who had cared, who placated his fears, who never got angry when he cried, who embraced him when the procedures were over, particularly if they’d hurt. Dr. Nightingale had disappeared sometime in his early teenage years, without so much as a goodbye, when there’d been an abrupt purge in the department following some sort of misconduct. The records on the incident were sealed, so to this day, Sephiroth had no clue what had happened. He wondered where Dr. Nightingale was now. He couldn’t remember her first name anymore, and he had trouble recalling the details of her face, but her music had somehow imprinted on him.

Sinking into the melody, Sephiroth shut the blinds and drew his curtains. He turned the lights to their very brightest, and took a seat in front of the dressing table, and the mirror behind it. He let his hair down and brushed it in slow, methodical strokes, teasing out the tangles it had accumulated over the day. It was a ritual both calming and meditative, a release from the myriad of worries that plagued him. When his hairbrush no longer met resistance, he took his hair into his hands and braided its entire length, which he tied off with a thin elastic. He wrapped the plait around his head, brushed his bangs back, and pinned it all down tightly with a handful of bobby pins before securing his hair beneath the tight, stretchy mesh of a wig cap. 

He next laid out his cosmetics on the dressing table—foundation sticks, concealers of varying shades, setting powders, blush, a few eyeshadow palettes, and a dizzying array of brow, eye and lip liners—just a few amongst all the products he had accumulated over the years. He also pulled out his sponges and brushes, varying in size and shape from the very large and fluffy for blending, to the fine and pointed for precise line work. 

Sephiroth began by gluing down his eyebrows and pressing powder into them mercilessly to create a stiff, flat surface that was smooth enough to use as Argenta’s canvas. Foundation went on next, in a tone that was just a shade warmer than his pale skin. He blended it out in in practiced motions, the cadence strangely soothing, allowing him to set aside his concerns from the part of his life dominated by Shinra, and draw closer to his own secret happiness, in an entirely separate realm that the company could not touch. The foundation was thick, opaque, and flattened the shadows cast by his sharp features. Sephiroth always thought he looked strangest when he paused here, like a person half-formed, his features indistinct as if pulled from someone else’s distant memory, not quite man and not quite woman, caught in the space between worlds. 

Painting Argenta from the barren, featureless plains of his foundation was a careful and arduous process. Andrea had taught him how to use the illusion of light and shadow to change the shape of his face. He could draw a rounder, wider cheek by emulating the shadows of cheekbones where there were none, and feminize his browbone by lifting it, changing where its highlights were, and shifting the shadow of the crease of his eye. The brows he drew on his forehead, slightly higher than where his natural brows rested. He made them more delicate and arched, conveying a hint of royal haughtiness. The bridge of his nose was already narrow, so he didn’t contour it as harshly as other queens did, highlighting instead in other places that made his features appear soft and round. 

While the setting spray dried to keep his makeup in place, Sephiroth rose and went to the shelves lining the opposite side of the wall, to pick out the jewelry and hair Argenta wanted to wear for the night. In his last performance, he had toyed with the image of dark tresses for her, and while the look had achieved the drama he had desired for the number, black hair was not Argenta, at least not for tonight. He settled instead on one of her favorite wigs, rich waves of blonde curls that cascaded loosely to his waist. It was simple and glamorous, Argenta Rhodea to her very core. If he wanted to change, there were other wigs that sat in his dressing room at the Honeybee Inn. To go with the simplicity of his hair, he picked crystals in a sparkling waterfall for his ears. He set the wig and earrings on a side table for later. 

Sephiroth returned to the dresser to work on Argenta’s eyes, brushing on eyeshadow in gradual layers for a gradient effect, mixing soft, earthy reds and browns, before dusting with a final, subtle layer of shimmer. Argenta did not line her eyes as heavily as some of her fellow queens were inclined, as she preferred something that appeared more natural, even though her makeup was heavier by necessity than most women would wear on an evening out. Sephiroth drew a pretty wing at the corners of Argenta’s eyes, the angle of it a coy wink to what was currently fashionable amongst young women. 

It was after this step that he placed his contacts in, picking a set with vibrant blue irises to hide the mako glow and vertical slits of his own eyes. Next, he selected eyelashes that were spiky so as to allow his audience a peek at the colors of Argenta’s eyeshadow, holding very still as he set them in place, adjusting the angle of them carefully with forceps so that they slanted upward slightly at the outside edges. He blended his own lashes into the false ones with a few liberal coats of mascara, and paused to assess his handiwork. Argenta fluttered her eyelashes in the mirror. 

Her lips were always worked on last. Sephiroth selected a shade that was slightly darker than Argenta usually liked to wear. He started by penciling in a wide line, since his upper lip was rather thin, drawing in an exaggerated cupid’s bow. His bottom lip was thicker and fuller, so he had no need to overline it. He then filled his lips in with a bright, vibrant red, and topped it off with another layer of shimmer. 

Sephiroth put on Argenta’s finishing touches, painting the highlights and shadows of her cleavage onto his chest and cinching his waist with a corset. He filled out Argenta’s bra with padding and shaped her hips with sculpted foam and three layers of thick, nude-colored hose. Most of Argenta’s dresses were kept at the Honeybee, because it was too cumbersome to transport her wardrobe back and forth between the undercity and the plate, so Argenta almost always traveled in a simple day dress, sometimes adding a coat if the weather was cold. Though it was nearing the beginning of autumn, Argenta decided she would give the summer a proper send off, and selected a high-waisted, knee-length dress with a bright, flowery print and a plunging neckline that accentuated her bust. 

She placed her wig on after getting dressed, gluing the lace front down and pinning the wig in the back in several places so that Argenta could toss her head if she wished and watch her curls bounce with the motion. Red nails went on last on her fingers, long enough to disguise the size of her hands and lend them the illusion of femininity. She checked her reflection, flashing herself a satisfied smile at the gorgeous, glamorous woman in the mirror. It was a mere three weeks since her last appearance at the Honeybee, but it already felt as if she had been waiting far too long for this night to come. Perhaps she should start going more often, she thought naughtily.

Argenta selected her favorite shoes, those seven-inch ones in white, beauty and pain in equal measure. She turned off her music and stepped out of her room, proud and regal, a queen ready for her spotlight in Wall Market. She placed a few items in a small clutch bag, and turned off all her lights. She locked her front door behind her and made for the elevator in long strides, her hips swaying side to side while her stilettos clicked with each step on the marble floor of the corridor.

* * *

After Cloud’s audition, Andrea Rhodea sent him instructions for an early arrival time at the Honeybee, so he could go over the stage and his cues, since he’d never performed professionally before. He was relieved not to have a scheduled shift for that afternoon or night, and so managed to make it on time, dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, rolling a small suitcase behind him with his drag, all the way down to Wall Market on the train. 

Miss Kelly was waiting for him when he made it to the stage, a big, pleased grin on her face. She walked him quickly through the calls, and where he was to wait. It was simple, because he was only opening the show, warming up Argenta’s audience for her number, the same routine he’d seen an unbelievable eight months ago. 

“Andrea’s going to let you use his box if you want to watch Argenta,” Miss Kelly said, after she checked that Cloud had understood her instructions. 

“Really?”

Miss Kelly smiled. “I think it was really gutsy for you to audition the way you did, and Andrea likes guts like that.”

Cloud flushed. “It was probably more stupidity than anything else.”

Miss Kelly chuckled with understanding. “Sometimes we have to do what we have to do, and we’re lucky when it works out in our favor.” Cloud got the feeling that she had some similar history with the Honeybee and Andrea Rhodea, but was too polite to pry. 

“I hope so,” Cloud said simply, hardly daring to imagine what he’d have to pull to impress Andrea Rhodea a second time. He wondered if it would ever be possible for him to have a regular spot with the Honeybee, the way that Julie B. Booty and Anita Mann were regulars on other nights.

“What would you prefer I call you, by the way?” said Miss Kelly. “I don’t think I asked before.”

“Uh…” Cloud hesitated. He wasn’t in drag yet, and still feeling a little intimidated by being on this side of the Honeybee’s stage. “My name is Cloud Strife, but I’m also Clara Skye.”

Miss Kelly pondered that for a second. “Oh, I see. That’s cute, I like it. It suits you.”

Cloud beamed. “Thanks.”

“C’mere, I’ll show you where your dressing room is.”

“My dressing room?”

“Well, technically it’s Andrea’s, but he said you could use it to get ready, since the usual room for the Honeygirls is already packed.”

Cloud retrieved his suitcase from the foyer, and followed Miss Kelly backstage, up a narrow staircase, and down a corridor. 

“Over there is where all the special services rooms are,” Miss Kelly said, motioning at the turn up ahead of them. “And the other end of that hallway eventually connects to the reception area.”

Miss Kelly led him to a room with a heavy wooden door. An engraved brass plate sat in the center of it, at eye level.

HOUSE OF RHODEA

“Make sure you’re ready backstage at least ten minutes before curtain call.”

Cloud nodded, still eyeing the name on the door. 

“See you, then.” Miss Kelly waved goodbye, disappearing the way they came. 

Cloud half expected Andrea to be lurking in the dimness of his own dressing room like a movie villain, with another warning about how he’d cut a bitch if Cloud dared to hurt his drag daughter’s feelings, but there was no one there. Cloud was by himself. 

The room was thickly carpeted in red, much like the rest of the Honeybee’s rooms that Cloud had gotten a peek of. There was a mirror stretching the entire width of the wall opposite the door, lined with a bright strip of LEDs across the top edge, and even more recessed into the ceiling to provide illumination. Instead of separate dressing tables there was simply one long counter of laminated wood that ran beneath the mirror. There were two chairs beneath the counters, and a well-loved divan off to one side of the room, its carved wooden legs worn and scratched, its upholstery slightly weathered where many a drag queen might have lounged between routines throughout the years.

Aside from the entrance, there was one other door, one that seemed to slide aside into the wall instead of swinging open, but he paid it no mind at first, and went to examine the mirror and dressing table instead. He couldn’t tell which place was supposed to be Clara’s, so he just picked the one closest to the empty clothes rack, figuring that it was all the same, given that it was one continuous mirror and counter.

Cloud unpacked his suitcase, hanging up his outfit—a stretchy white graphic tank top and the same black vinyl miniskirt he’d worn on the train down to audition two weeks ago. There was an empty wig form on the dressing table, so he took his wig out of its plastic bag and put it there, gently combing through the tangled mess until it resembled the straight, shoulder-length blonde thing that was on the bag's cardboard insert.

He sat down and decided he might as well start getting ready. He was still slow at painting, taking forever to blend out his foundation and find the right contours and highlights for his cheeks. Cloud had been practicing every night since Andrea had offered him the chance to prove himself, and though he wasn’t getting much faster at finding Clara, he was certainly getting better despite the slow progress. When he finally finished, Clara winked back at him from the mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair and blew her bangs out of her eyes. She padded her bra with a bunch of foam pieces she’d stuffed into the toes of a ripped pair of tights, and adjusted them until they sat naturally on her chest. 

“Ready to party?” Clara asked. She laughed when Cloud didn’t answer. She pulled on her miniskirt, stepped into her knee-high, faux leather black boots, and pursed her lips for a kiss. She was ready to slay, and there was still an hour left until curtain. 

Clara looked around the room, still empty, and disconcertingly quiet and insulated from the rest of the Honeybee Inn, which must be starting to fill by this time in the evening. She could  
tuck and go backstage early, but she might just end up in somebody’s way. Or she could investigate that door over there. Clara rose and walked over to it, more confident in her heels from all the practice she’d been doing in her room the past few weeks despite the deep plush of the carpet. 

Clara rapped on the door lightly in case it led to another dressing room, but there was no light leaking from beneath it, and no sound when she put her ear against it. It slid so easily on oiled tracks when she pulled it aside, that it slammed with an alarming thud into its slot in the wall. Clara cringed and tensed, waiting for someone to hear the ruckus and burst into the room, but nothing happened after a few seconds. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she flipped the small light switch on the wall to her right. 

“Ooh!” Clara breathed a sigh of reverence, as the light revealed the room’s contents. 

It was a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with rows of gowns in lace, satin and silk, twinkling with rhinestones and sequins. There were shelves crammed full of shoes of every color, from delicate stilettos to boots that went all the way up to the thigh. Rows upon rows of wigs on wig forms adorned the far wall, most of them blonde, all elegantly coiffed and cared for. Argenta’s jewelry, accessories, and nails were organized into neat boxes and carefully labeled, the entire closet immaculate and tidy, everything in its right place. Clara recognized the white gown lined with red, and the fringe dress that looked as if it was made from a million crystals, from the first time she’d ever laid eyes on Argenta Rhodea. Even Argenta’s black ensemble from her last performance was here, and Clara was drawn to it immediately. She stepped inside, absently wiping her hands on her miniskirt before reaching forward to touch it. The thick satin felt rich beneath her fingers. The skirt was heavy as she lifted it up, marveling at how many meters of fabric there were to the dress, how high the slit was cut, almost up to the waist. 

It was the closet of every drag queen’s dreams, filled with gowns of sumptuous glamor, everything carefully tailored and artfully designed. Clara would never be able to afford dresses this fancy, ones made just for her. She was relegated to buying her outfits at department stores or cheap chain boutiques. 

Clara turned her attention to the wigs, there must have been twenty or thirty of them, all lace-fronts, an occasional red or brown one amongst the sea of blonde. She wondered if they too were handmade like Argenta’s gowns, and how many thousands of gil each one must cost. She reached out curiously, taking the nearest one off its shelf, a shoulder-length wave that she thought might also have been the first she’d seen Argenta wear. She touched it gently. It was stiffer than she thought it would be, and much heavier than her own. There was color in the wig, strands of slightly different shades of blonde to give it depth and dimension, just like real human hair instead of the cheap, synthetic wig that Clara had purchased on sale at the party store. Argenta’s wigs were all exquisite, and she stroked them enviously. 

The door to the closet, which had slid partially shut on the rebound from Clara’s forceful opening, suddenly swept open, crashing again into the wall with a startling clatter. Clara whirled. 

“Who the hell are you?” The deep voice seemed to fill the room, reverberating through Clara’s very bones. Argenta Rhodea loomed in the doorway, her blue eyes flashing with fury. 

Clara, startled by the sudden intrusion, let out a yelp. In her shock at being confronted by the sight of Argenta and in her instinctive haste to turn around, Clara tripped over her own feet, one heel catching on the carpet. She went over, flailing her arms vainly for balance. She backpedaled a few steps and careened into the back of the closet. The impact of her body against the shelves knocked them askew, and several wigs and wig forms came raining down on top of Clara, burying her in blonde hair. She slid further down, trying to arrest her fall by reaching out. She ended up grabbing some of Argenta’s dresses for purchase, but the thick fabric offered no resistance and instead slid off their hangers, dropping to the floor alongside her. A few boxes of jewelry upended their contents as well, sparkling necklaces and dazzling earrings refracting kaleidoscopic light as they sailed through the air. Clara’s bottom finally hit the floor. She waited in silence for something more to fall. She blinked at Argenta, raising her head up, up, up to meet the gaze of her idol. 

“Get out of my closet!” Argenta snarled, her expression twisting in rage and confusion. “Now!”

Clara struggled, buried as she was in wigs and satin, faux jewels scattered on top of her like shiny ice cream toppings. “I’m so sorry!” she squeaked, as she attempted to dig herself out, tossing as much as she could off of her so she could struggle to her feet. 

“Out!” Argenta shouted. 

The entire floor of the closet was covered, and once Clara made it back onto her heels, she did her best to tiptoe to avoid stepping on anything, but it was nearly impossible not to catch the hem of a dress or the edge of a wig under her shoes. Something crunched audibly underfoot, so Clara quickly lifted it, looking guilty. “I’m—”

“Get out!” Argenta was incandescent. Clara was sure that if Argenta could kill with a glare, she would be dead already ten times over. 

Clara put down her foot again, grimacing as she felt silk and not carpet beneath. Her ankle twisted as she put her weight on it, and she tumbled forward. She managed to keep her hands to herself and not pull down more dresses, but it did mean that she fell face first. And it appeared that instead of backing away, Argenta’s first instinct was to take a step forward and try to catch her. But Argenta misjudged the distance slightly, or perhaps she was trying not to step on her own things, and instead of being caught in Argenta’s arms, Clara’s face went straight into her left breast. 

It was surprisingly squishy, with a bit of jiggle, one of those expensive, silicone breast forms, much fancier than Clara’s do-it-yourself homemade padding. And it was huge to boot, nearly the size of Clara’s face. 

Clara heard Argenta emit a growl of disgust. Two strong hands clamped around her middle. She was physically lifted and tossed through the air, out of the closet. She managed to land on her feet, but momentum pitched her forward onto her knees and hands. 

Argenta rounded on her, drawing to her full seven-foot height in her hair and heels, her face still contorted with anger. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded. 

“I’m Clara Skye!” Clara clambered to her feet. “I’m opening for you!”

Argenta’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the new girl?”

Clara nodded. 

Argenta gave Clara a look over, eyes raking her from head to toe. “You?” scoffed Argenta with derision.

Before Clara could answer, the door to the dressing room flung open, and Andrea Rhodea swept inside. 

“What’s the commotion in here?” he asked mildly, taking in the ruined state of Argenta’s closet with one glance. 

Argenta gestured to her closet. "Your new girl did this.” Argenta pointed an accusatory finger. “And she looks like that.”

The insult didn’t even register, no thought in Clara’s head except how much she’d just fucked up. She shouldn’t have gone into Argenta’s closet without her permission, she shouldn’t have touched anything, and she shouldn’t have fallen over. Twice. “I’ll help you clean up, I can stay all night. I—”

Andrea interrupted her. “Are you dressed, Clara?” he asked. 

“Yes.”

“Then I think it’s best you went backstage. I’ll help Argenta get ready.” 

Clara opened her mouth to apologize again, but then thought better of it. She bobbed courteously to Argenta, receiving only a glare in return. She fled the room, closing the door behind her. She stumbled as quickly as she could down the hall, until she had to stop and lean against the nearest wall, her strength fading, the only sound in her ears the hammering of her heart. Gods, she couldn’t have fucked that up more if she’d tried. She had to take several deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears, either at the hilarity or the tragedy of what had just transpired. She’d imagined their first meeting going so differently. There were so many things she’d envisioned saying to Argenta—praising her talent as a performer, telling her how intense and inspirational her shows were. Clara had wanted to thank her for the rescue that one night in Wall Market, and for coming to help in Sector 8 during the attack. She’d wanted to tell Argenta Rhodea anytime she wanted to talk, Clara Skye, or Cloud Strife, would be there to listen. None of that was going to happen now, she’d be lucky to get a call back from Andrea at all. 

More deep breaths. When she managed to calm down enough, Clara made her way down the stairs, clinging tightly to the bannister.

* * *

Argenta was still fuming when the door shut. She hadn’t expected to have to contend with Andrea’s new girl in her own dressing room, much less pillaging her things and making a catastrophic mess of them. The gown she had wanted to wear for her first number was buried somewhere in the pile of dresses, shoes, and wigs, but that was a secondary concern. She rounded on Andrea, who had an amused grin on his face. 

“What’s so funny?” snapped Argenta irritably. 

“A drag queen just tripped further into the closet,” Andrea chuckled. “Usually we end up falling when we come out of it.”

“Or you dont trip at all,” Argenta said acerbically. “I didn’t realize when you said a new girl was opening my show that she still came with her umbilical cord attached!”

“She’s on trial, just for one night. We’ll see how she does on stage.”

Argenta muttered under her breath that she hoped the girl’s wig would fly off mid-routine and she’d sprain an ankle. She went back to her closet, and surveyed the disaster. Half of her wigs had fallen from their shelves, or else were all slid to one side where the shelving had collapsed. Two jewelry boxes had upended, so there were crystals, beads, and glass everywhere. Half of her dresses had been yanked off their hangers. The new girl could hardly have done more damage if she’d tried. 

“Afraid of competition, my dear?” 

Argenta stilled. “No, but we don’t let other people into this room when I’m here. You know why.” 

Her jaw tightened, her stomach knotting at the thought of her identity escaping the confines of these four walls, and the media furore that would ensue. While the news was never kind, it was at least positive toward Sephiroth, even though the resulting attention and expectations were a terrible weight to bear. Argenta sickened at the thought of what would happen if Shinra’s PR turned on her, what the headlines would look like, how they would distort the only joy she had for herself, and twist her art into something despicable and shameful, a betrayal of the public’s trust and admiration.

It was why she kept it a secret, and why there were precious few who knew it. Genesis and Angeal had known from the beginning, but they were now gone. Andrea and his brother, Jules—or Julie B. Booty as she was called on stage—had taught Argenta the trade and the art of drag, so they knew. But no one else did, not even the rest of the Honeybee’s dancers or their lead choreographer, Miss Kelly. Not the tailor who designed her clothes, nor the woman who made her shoes—since her feet were too large to buy women’s sizes. Not even the other queens who performed here on other nights knew who she was, believing Argenta too arrogant to kiki with them. Better that estrangement, than the consequences of the truth. 

“I know,” Andrea said soothingly. “But Clara is not the prying type.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” Andrea soothed her.

“And you’ve met her how many times?”

“Enough to know she’d never do anything to hurt you.”

Argenta scoffed. 

“You know how seriously I take this too,” Andrea said, a stern edge creeping into his voice. “I’ve protected you from the very beginning, and I’m not about to stop now.”

“Then why the new girl in my room?” Argenta demanded. 

“I had nowhere else for her. I’m sorry she made a mess.”

Argenta pressed her lips together. That hadn’t been an answer. She had the feeling that Andrea was hiding something or plotting something, but such was his way, as the mother of Wall Market’s most exclusive nightclub and one of its most powerful people. A queen didn’t get as far as he did down here by laying all his cards on the table. 

“I always have your best interests in mind,” he assured her. “Now let’s get you dressed.” 

Argenta hesitated, but finally relented. Her only other option was not to perform in protest, but she would never do that. She lived for the nights when she could be on stage. “I better not see that busted queen around here again,” she grumbled, as she selected a blue off-the-shoulder gown, with strings of rhinestones dripping from her shoulder like a glittering fall of icicles in miniature. She looked it over quickly to make sure it wasn’t damaged or stained, and picked a matching pair of heels.

“We all started somewhere,” Andrea reminded her. 

“Usually in bars.” Argenta placed the dress on the clothes rack, and slid out of her light, summer dress. There was a lipstick stain on it, from where the new girl had fallen into her bosom. Argenta rolled her eyes and suppressed a sigh, that was going to be a bitch to clean. 

“I don’t recall making you start in a bar,” remarked Andrea. 

“Me?” Argenta checked her reflection in the mirror. “I was too fierce from the very beginning to languish in a bar.” She was not boasting, it was merely a statement of fact. 

Andrea helped her into her gown, while Argenta held the back of her hair up so it wouldn’t catch on the zipper. She turned around and made a few minor adjustments—her breasts, her hair, her earrings. The dress fit her sculpted curves perfectly, transparent cutouts in the fabric sweeping her torso in pleasing waves before disappearing into pools of royal blue cloth, only the very tips of her shoes peeking out from beneath the hem. 

Andrea nodded. “Perfection,” he murmured. 

Argenta cracked a crooked smile. As if she would be anything but. 

“You should go backstage to see how the new girl does.”

“Do I have to?” Argenta asked, a little petulantly. 

“I wouldn’t underestimate that one.”

Argenta raised one elegant eyebrow. Her drag mother did not evaluate dancers lightly, and to take on a baby queen who wasn’t even wearing hip padding or a decent lace-front, well, there must be something to her. Or else Andrea was getting old and his sight was fading. Judging by how basic the girl’s makeup was, that was a distinct possibility. 

Nevertheless, to save her mother from repeating herself, Argenta picked up her skirts and walked to the door. She would be supportive of other queens, it was a kindness she owed her sisters, passed on from the days when a queen had to fight to be seen as an entertainer, when their trade was still widely derided, and they were just seen as queer, crossdressing whores. 

Argenta Rhodea would watch the new girl, but that didn’t mean she had to like her.


	20. Shantay, You Stay

“Clara! What happened to your makeup?” were the first words out of Miss Kelly’s mouth when Clara teetered down the stairs backstage.

“I ran into Argenta Rhodea,” Clara said, her heart still pounding in her chest. Remarkably, she was calmer than she’d been when Argenta had shouted at her, despite having to go on stage for the first time in her life. She related the encounter to Miss Kelly. 

Miss Kelly let out a low whistle when Clara finished. “I’ve got a tip for you from now on, since you’re new at this.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t mess with another queen’s closet,” Miss Kelly grinned. 

Clara wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, I think I got that already.”

“Especially not Argenta Rhodea’s. She’s not the nicest queen round.”

“She’s not?”

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s beautiful and will dance the house down any night she’s here—when she bothers to come, that is—but not the type of queen who kikis with the girls,” Miss Kelly said.

“Maybe she’s got her reasons,” Clara murmured, sympathetic to Argenta’s situation and why she wouldn’t want to socialize with the other performers at the Honeybee Inn. 

“Whatever her reasons, just don’t get in her way. Probably should’ve told you that before you went in,” Miss Kelly said ruefully. “Sorry about that.”

Clara shrugged, what’s done was done. She tried to ignore the dread sitting in her gut, at least Miss Kelly wasn’t kicking her out on the spot, but she couldn’t stop imagining that her first performance tonight might also be her last. Miss Kelly pulled Clara aside to get a better look at her face.

“I was gonna tell you to fix your mug, but I kinda like it a little messy. It suits your song.” 

The song that Clara had picked was a hit from five years ago, an upbeat, poppy anthem about partying all night and getting drunk and not giving a damn. It was fun, catchy, and trashy, the exact opposite of the gravitas and dignity that Argenta brought to her numbers. Clara hadn’t chosen that consciously, it was just a song she’d liked when she was younger, and it didn’t require anything fancy from her in terms of costumes or choreography—she could manage trashy dancing.

She must have looked nervous, because Miss Kelly gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You’re gonna do great, Clara. Just get out there, have fun, and show them who you are.”

Clara took a deep breath and nodded. That she was still being allowed to go on meant one thing—she had one chance to serve it. She had to serve it to Andrea, she had to serve it to Argenta—please, gods, let her be watching from somewhere—but most of all, she had to serve it to the audience of the Honeybee Inn. If she could win them over, she might stand a chance of being invited back. The time left until the beginning of the show passed both slowly and quickly. Clara couldn’t see the audience from where she waited, but she could hear them and imagine how packed the theatre was, how everyone must be there to see Argenta Rhodea, and they would get her instead, baby queen Clara Skye.

The lights in the theatre went dark, and Clara stood on her mark until Miss Kelly gave her the signal. Everything happened in a haze, Clara’s brain hardly having the time to process as she was driven by some combination of fear and desperation. She took her place on stage through the first few beats of the music, ignoring the mild murmur of surprise from the audience when the spotlight revealed that she wasn't the queen they’d been waiting for. She would just have to show them that she could give them something different, something Argenta couldn’t do, and make them eat it, make them clamor for more.

Clara Skye strutted across the stage, swinging her hips, running a hand down her thigh and down the slick, shiny vinyl of her boots. She puckered her pouty lips as she mouthed the lyrics, going through the motions of stumbling out of bed drunk and drinking more alcohol. When the chorus hit, she pulled out some moves, emulating the bump and grind of the club, the press of bodies, the hands grabbing her ass and sliding up her top. 

A whistle of encouragement pierced the silence of the audience. At least someone was enjoying the show, so Clara did her slutty best, using up every inch of the stage, every asset she could think of—boobs, hair, legs, butt. By the time she thought to take a page from Argenta’s book, there were a few more whistles joining the first, and she pinpointed one of the first row tables where the sound had come from, and pranced off the stage and onto the floor to give him a show. 

She couldn’t leap onto the table the way Argenta did—Clara wasn’t that steady on her heels yet, but she sidled close instead, bent over and let the young man in the crisp suit slap her ass. She grabbed two drinks from the Honeygirls keeping him company and went back on stage, pretending to totter even more drunkenly before she doused her white top with the contents of both glasses. The audience cheered as her shirt, translucent from the moisture, revealed her black bra beneath and in the final chorus, she gave her performance everything she had. She swung her hair from side to side until her wig fell off, she stripped her wet shirt off and flung it into the audience. She jumped and dropped into a split on the stage, still bouncing to the beat of the music. Clara Skye was not going home with any regrets, with anything left that she hadn’t given. 

She staggered back up the last few bars of the song, like a girl too stubborn and wasted to go home from the party, like she didn’t know any better, before she finished with a spectacular drop. Clara lay on the stage, chest heaving and gasping as the lights dimmed once again, and the song ended to the sounds of the crowd hollering and clapping. She wondered if she was imagining it, if she had hit her head on the stage and her ears were ringing. She stared at the darkened ceiling, praying, hoping, that it had been enough. 

“Psst! Clara!” the voice of Miss Kelly intruded on her thoughts. “Get off the stage!”

Clara crawled to her feet, scurrying backstage. She couldn’t see very well from being blinded by the lights, and only managed to stop short of bumping into the Argenta Rhodea shaped shadow that suddenly loomed before her out of the darkness. 

Clara tilted her head up to meet Argenta’s gaze. Had she been watching? What did she think?

Argenta’s gaze flickered away and to the stage. “Hmph.” She pushed past Clara, jostling Clara’s shoulder as she passed. It was the only acknowledgement that Clara received as Argenta took her place on stage, and the soft strains of her song began. 

Jaw tight with rising outrage, Clara stomped back up the stairs. Miss Kelly gave her a thumbs up, but didn’t follow. She knew that Argenta would have been in a better mood if she hadn’t tripped and fallen and subsequently made a mess of her closet, but she was going back upstairs to pick up after herself. She’d apologized! 

Andrea Rhodea was nowhere to be found when Clara returned to the dressing room, but did find a note from the man, advising her to make herself scarce for the rest of the night. Reading between the lines, Clara got out of drag, packed her things into her suitcase and left it in an adjacent hallway, where Argenta wouldn’t see it. She should probably have gone back home to wallow in the misery of their colossally fucked up first meeting, but the draw of being here at the Honeybee on a night when Argenta Rhodea was performing was too great. 

Cloud snuck to the rear of the theatre, keeping to the shadows, and stayed there for the rest of the night to watch the show. It was clear he wasn’t a client, so the Honeygirls and boys left him alone. Even if he never got invited back here again, it was worth it, Cloud thought, as Argenta took to the stage for her second number. Argenta Rhodea looked just as good in that diamond fringe dress as Cloud remembered. Cloud folded his arms across his chest, and settled against the wall, letting the music and the exhilaration of Argenta’s energy tug on his heart just as it had that very first night.

* * *

**ARGENTA’S ARDENTS**

For fans of the best drag queen in Midgar

**Performances & Reviews**  
 _This is the forum where attendees of Argenta’s shows can discuss her performances. There are spoilers here for those who have yet to see her live!_

**Topic: New Queen**  
**Posted by ITS_JUST_DRAG**

Nobody on the Midgar drag circuit had ever heard of Clara Skye, but she burst on stage at the Honeybee Inn last night, with a rousing and energetic opening for Argenta Rhodea’s Diamonds and Destiny revue. While it’s clear that Clara is a newcomer to drag and performing on stage, what she lacks in experience she certainly makes up for in sheer enthusiasm, bringing a much needed breath of fresh air and exuberance to the stately glamor of Argenta Rhodea’s shows. 

Any attendee of Argenta will have experienced her trademark elegance and grace. She is beauty and perfection incarnate in her performances. The emotional depth and range she brings to her songs is second to none, and she sure knows how to stun an audience to silence and bring them to tears, but between the highly produced dance numbers and Argenta’s signature movie starlet looks, longtime drag aficionados may find Miss Rhodea lacking in the fun department. (Far be it for me to detract from our favorite queen in a review on this forum, and before you rip me apart my fellow Ardents, please at least read to the end of the review!)

Those who have seen other queens perform know that the tradition of drag is steeped in the culture of camp and a sense of irreverence. Besides being a protest against the overly restrictive gender binaries of decades past, the one cardinal rule of drag is that it’s supposed to be fun. Though it’s a form of creative self-expression for the queen, most of all drag is light-hearted and drag is joy. Drag is freedom, and that is what Clara Skye has brought back to the Diamonds and Destiny revue. 

Wobblin’ in to the classic hit “Party All Night”, Clara Skye delivered four straight minutes of entertainment and fun, never breaking character from the song’s tawdry chanteuse. She delivered jump splits, death drops, wig-flinging hairography, and in a move you’ll never see from the headlining act, Clara poured water over her white top before slinging it into the cheering audience near the end of the song. 

Sure, she looked a hot mess, but that was the point wasn’t it? As the antithesis of everything Argenta Rhodea, Clara Skye took us back to a time when drag wasn’t high art, but just a girl in a bar having a grand old time. With that blast of fun, Clara's performance paradoxically better prepared us for the dynamism of Argenta’s energy, and helped us better appreciate the levels to which Argenta has elevated her art. We have to see the caterpillar to understand what it takes to become the butterfly. 

I, for one, certainly hope we’ll be seeing more of her in the future, whether at the Honeybee Inn or on the Midgar bar circuit. Watch out, queens of Midgar, baby queen Clara Skye is coming to snatch your wigs and slay.

* * *

Sephiroth was still irate when he headed into his meeting with Major Varma the next morning. He had stayed late at the Honeybee to clean up the mess the new girl made, and then even later at home getting rid of the lipstick stain on his summer dress. The meeting itself did nothing to improve his mood, as Varma called up slide after slide of what she called metrics and key performance indicators, boiling all of SOLDIER down to arbitrary goals and a set of numbers that she could then track over time. She had numbers on how many missions each operative had been assigned to, their time to completion, the amount of resources they used per missions, and ratings for their strength and weaknesses. She had an endless stream of data, very little of it meaningful in Sephiroth’s view, except as justification to the President for why he should increase funding for the program next year. Sephiroth let Varma carry on with her plans, not that she actually needed his permission. 

Kunsel and Zack were sitting in the SOLDIER lounge when Sephiroth returned. He saw them steal surreptitious glances in his direction, and quickly look away. That he was susceptible to foul moods was no secret around SOLDIER, but he was professional enough, usually, not to snap at the men and women under his command. He strode over. 

“Bad meeting?” Zack asked innocently, trying to defuse his mood. 

“Is there ever a good one?”

Zack and Kunsel looked at each other. They knew it was bad news when he started asking rhetorical questions. 

He made them give him an update on the missions. Zack hadn’t received any noteworthy assignment from Varma since Modeoheim, which left him free to train with the Buster Sword, an endeavor which required that he relearn how to distribute the weight of himself in relation to his weapon. He had just gotten the hang of Octaslash, and wielding Angeal’s Buster put him nearly back at square one, but Zack was persistent, rather than taking the easy way out by defaulting to the SOLDIER broadsword. When he wasn’t training, Sephiroth suspected that Zack was going down to the undercity to spend time with Aerith, whose parents somehow hadn’t beaten him off yet. Well, that was none of Sephiroth’s business. 

Kunsel, as the only SOLDIER whom cadet Roche Hoffman had known personally before his unfortunate incident, was assigned to overseeing his rehabilitation. Over the past week, Hoffman had awoken, and was beginning the long journey to his physical recovery. Though his muscle memory was intact, he still suffered from extensive retrograde amnesia. He had to be taught his name, and could not remember any details about his family, childhood, friends, and even what he was doing here in SOLDIER. There were moments of lucidity and calmness, when Kunsel said he recognized the Roche of old, and moments of intense paranoia and emotional volatility, which often resulted in violence—Roche lashing out at those around him. Shinra would have issued him a medical discharge had it not been for Sephiroth, who had insisted on keeping him. The tainted mako serum had left him incredibly strong, much stronger than the average SOLDIER Third Class ought to be, and leaving a man that powerful, untrained amidst his civilian family put them, and the rest of the city, in danger. Roche would have to remain in SOLDIER, and they would have to do their best to put back together what pieces of the man remained. Kunsel was optimistic that Roche might eventually recover some of his memory and that the volatility of his personality would settle. Sephiroth didn’t have the heart to caution him against that hope. 

Their conversation was interrupted by the vibration of Sephiroth’s personal cell phone, and he snuck a look at it during a lull.

I’ve decided to invite Clara Skye back for the next performance. Her opener has proved popular with the audience, and I think it’s time for some fresh blood, don’t you?

Sephiroth suppressed a deep sigh. What had gotten into Andrea’s head recently? Was this some mid-life crisis manifesting itself as a desire for more drag progeny? 

“Excuse me,” he said, rising from his chair to curious glances from Kunsel and Zack. “Something appears to have come up.”

“There’s always something,” Zack said cheerfully, but Sephiroth did not hear as he strode to the elevators and left the building.

* * *

Cloud’s head reeled as he read the message on his phone during his short lunch break. He’d been assigned to security at a construction site for a new set of high-rises in Sector 7, and it was dull work, standing around all day and redirecting traffic. He’d earned a minor commendation in his record for his service in the Modeoheim mission, but instead of that netting him more interesting assignments, he’d had to go back to the grind. But now the grind didn’t seem as bad because he’d just gotten an invite back to the Honeybee Inn. Andrea Rhodea wanted him back! Did he have a permanent gig? Was this just an extension of his trial? It didn't even matter as long as he got to go back and perform again in Argenta’s show.

Cloud sagged against the edge of the construction area’s concrete barrier, mortified by the memory of his first proper meeting with Argenta Rhodea. Though Andrea had warned him to steer clear of her, he nevertheless regretted not staying and attempting to patch things up by helping her clean up. He had a second chance to make it up to her now. 

Some money had come into his account from his first performance, enough for Cloud to pick up another wig, a couple of cheap pairs of pumps, and a vinyl tube top at the mall after his shift was over. He still flushed bright pink going to the counter with women’s clothing, but managed to keep his head up, even when the cashier kept his head down, conspicuously avoiding Cloud’s gaze.

He hadn’t been seeing much of his friends lately, his evenings mostly occupied in front of the mirror above his sink, practicing time and time again at painting Clara Skye onto himself. She had solidified over the past few weeks—she had a look now, a consistent angle to her cat’s eye, a preferred shade of eyeshadow, a shape to her pouty lips, a certain haughty arch to her brows. She was taking less time to draw out as Cloud’s motions with his blending sponge became more sure and his strokes with his eyeliner brush became more certain. 

Giselle and Aleksandr were sitting on the lounge of their floor, splitting a six-pack of beer between them. Cloud tried to tiptoe past the door, but Giselle’s sharp eye caught him. 

“Hey Cloud, you’re welcome to join us,” she beckoned. “Got a beer for you.”

“Yeah, haven’t seen you around in ages,” Aleksandr added.

Cloud’s heart thumped, but he tried not to look nervous or shifty as he leaned casually against the door frame, grateful that the bag he carried his shopping in was opaque. “Sorry guys,” he said apologetically, “but I’m not feeling very good tonight.”

Giselle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 

“What, you got a cold or something?” asked Aleksandr.

“Something like that,” Cloud shrugged with a wan smile. “Maybe next time, though.” That was what he’d been saying the past couple of times they’d invited him to hang out, but Aleksandr accepted the excuse, as pithy as it was. He started back toward his room before Giselle called to him again. 

“Hey, have you been in touch with Roche lately?”

Cloud paused and walked back to the doorway. Giselle looked worried. “No,” he said. “It’s been a few weeks, but I figured he was busy. He hasn’t been in touch with you?”

Giselle shook her head. “Tomas hasn’t heard from him either, and he hasn’t answered our messages or calls.”

“Huh.” Cloud pursed his lips. He hadn’t thought it odd before—maybe Roche was busy doing SOLDIER training, but the few texts he’d sent lately had gone unanswered as well. “I’ll drop him another line tonight.”

“Me too,” Giselle said.

She let Cloud go with that, and he heaved a sigh of relief when the door shut behind him. He locked it, unpacked his purchases, spread out Clara’s makeup, and spent the rest of the evening as Clara Skye, tossing her hair over her shoulders, strutting down the sadly short length of her room in her heels, practicing a few moves she knew would be enticing, particularly to the Honeybee’s male patrons. The stunt with the water she had pulled that first night had been one born of sheer desperation. Now she had to show Andrea Rhodea, and Argenta too, that Clara Skye wasn’t just a one-off, she could have an audience coming back to see her, again and again. 

Sweat beaded on the edges of her forehead when it was time to turn in. Before she took her makeup off, she used her phone to take a picture of herself, winking at the camera. She fired it off to Roche, to whom she owed a small debt of gratitude for her very existence. Roche had been right, Cloud would never have been brave enough to take this step if it hadn’t been for him.

Hey Roche, long time no see. How do I look?

* * *

It was a mere three weeks when Cloud found himself back at the Honeybee Inn. There was buzz on Argenta’s forums about her starting to appear more frequently and a fervent hope amongst her fans that she would continue this trend and appear regularly so more could come and catch her shows. The initial flurry of speculation over Clara Skye had since died down, a blip on the radar of increasing excitement over Argenta. Maybe someone would snap a photo of Clara tonight, Cloud thought, excitement mixed in equal parts with trepidation. Kunsel was on the forums too; though he barely posted, Cloud was sure he read everything. It might only be a matter of time before Kunsel made the connection between Clara Skye and Cloud Strife, and then he would ask about Argenta Rhodea, and Cloud didn’t know what he would say to hím. 

He was still pondering the question when he opened the door to Argenta’s dressing room. Despite the debacle the first night, Clara and Argenta would still have to share due to a lack of space elsewhere in either the Honeygirls’ or Honeyboys’ rooms. Argenta Rhodea was already seated in front of the mirror. She was already painted, but was touching up her makeup, applying a bit of gloss on her lips and adding a bit of shimmer to her cheeks. Gods, she was gorgeous, Cloud thought even as her gaze flickered up to meet his through the mirror and then slid back down again, without so much as an acknowledgement or greeting. 

Cloud froze in the doorway, his suitcase behind him, and he had to force himself to take a step into the room. 

“Uh...hi!” Cloud began, not sure how he was supposed to greet Argenta, if there was some secret drag queen handshake that he was supposed to know. “I’m Clara Skye.”

Argenta’s reflection looked up again, and she pressed her crimson lips together. She didn’t turn around. “I remember you,” she said crisply. 

Cloud wheeled his things over to the other side of the counter that served as their dressing table, realizing that on his first visit, he’d sat himself in Argenta’s place. “Yeah, sorry about everything last time,” he said, aiming for nonchalant despite his guts twisting themselves into knots with nervousness. Argenta was probably still angry about it, and though she had every right, Cloud couldn’t help wishing she weren’t. He didn’t want Argenta Rhodea to hate him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sephiroth, the man he’d idolized since childhood, knowing him and despising him. 

Argenta did not respond, and said nothing more as Cloud unpacked. She didn’t even look at him as he hung up his outfit—a black vinyl miniskirt and a hot pink vinyl tubetop. Clara looked rather good in it, but now it seemed paltry and sad beside the elegant dress that Argenta was attired in, a voluminous skirt that fell just to her knees, revealing contoured calves. Fabric flowers and strands of pearls decorated her white corset, clinging tightly to her waist and accentuating her generous bust. Even from this distance, Cloud’s eyes were fooled by the skillfully painted shadows and highlights of breasts on her pectorals, perfecting the illusion of her padding. He’d have to ask her at some point for some tips on how to do that. He’d been trying that with Clara, and all he’d managed so far was looking like Clara had circular smudges of dirt on her chest, instead of boobs. Maybe he’d ask when Argenta wasn’t in such a bad mood. 

Argenta continued to ignore him as Cloud sat down and drew Clara. He watched Argenta out of the corner of his eye, curious at how she spent her time, at how painstakingly she touched up everything from her nose to the very feathered edges of her brows, drawing in every hair, ever in pursuit of perfection. She must have tried on at least ten pairs of earrings before finding a pair she was satisfied with. Meanwhile, Clara had only brought one, a pair of giant gold hoops she’d picked up on sale for ten gil.

There was still half an hour until the curtain call when Clara finished. She regarded herself in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. Just for fun, she used her brush and dotted a mole near the corner of her mouth, because she’d seen a supermodel with a mole that everybody had talked about when she’d been younger. 

Clara glanced surreptitiously at Argenta, putting the rest of her jewelry away, the very picture of a lady of old nobility. Argenta barely looked at Clara as she pulled on three pairs of tights to smooth out her legs and help keep her tuck in place and shimmied into her skirt and top. Clara blew her reflection a kiss, a girl looking like she was ready to hit the seediest of clubs in the undercity on a Friday night and drink and dance until dawn. She turned around to go backstage, figuring better to arrive early than late.

“Wait.”

Clara paused and turned, mid-step. That was the first thing Argenta had said to her since she’d sat down and begun to prepare for her number.

Argenta stood in the doorway of her closet, graceful and statuesque, one leg crossed in front of the other. Her eyes raked over Clara, and Clara bristled slightly, sensing Argenta’s disapproval—no, worse, her contempt.

“That’s it?”

“Is what it?” Clara asked.

Argenta scoffed. “You think you’re done? That you can put on a little blush and a skimpy skirt and call it drag? And open for _me?_ ”

Clara’s expression darkened. She hadn’t asked for Argenta’s opinion, she hadn’t said anything other than a hello and left the woman her space, and the only thing Argenta had to say was about her drag? It wasn’t even shade, Argenta was coming for her outright. Clara put her hands on her albeit skinny hips. She didn’t have Argenta’s curves, which were surely generous padding, because Sephiroth didn’t have those hips. Clara didn’t need them. She stuck her chin out defiantly. 

“So what?” she asked.

“I’d suggest you take another look in the mirror,” said Argenta frostily, “but you clearly aren’t going to see anything other than a cheap two-gil whore.”

Clara’s jaw tightened. Looking trampy was the point. Her hands bunched into fists at her sides as Argenta regarded her with arrogant impassivity. What was her deal? Common cattiness, Argenta being a diva and unwilling to share her stage and spotlight? Clara had one number, Argenta had three. Argenta was still the headlining act. Sure, she might not have asked for an opener—she’d never had one before—but that was between her and Andrea, and had nothing to do with Clara, who was becoming more incensed by the second by Argenta’s bitchiness.

“Andrea hired me to open for you,” said Clara, matching Argenta’s cold tone. “I guess your usual tricks aren’t doing it for your audience anymore,” Clara smirked. “Enjoy my sloppy seconds.” 

Argenta’s eyes widened, but Clara was striding away, and slamming the door behind her. She made her way as fast as she could down the stairs and backstage, her heart hammering in her chest again. 

Faintly, she could hear Argenta Rhodea shout, “Andi!” and their dressing room door slam shut a second time, so hard that she swore the walls vibrated. 

Clara only narrowly avoided ruining her makeup, stopping herself before she put her face in her hands when she realized that she’d just clapped back at Argenta Rhodea. For fuck’s sake, she was trying to be nice to Argenta, and not insult her. Clara squeezed her eyes shut. 

Miss Kelly found her five minutes later in a darkened corner, her head down, muttering, “Clara Skye, you’re a fucking idiot.”

* * *

Argenta threw open the doors to Andrea’s office, still fuming. Her drag mother was seated behind his desk, discussing with his partner and husband, Augustine, how to accommodate the peculiar tastes and requests they’d received from the night’s VIPs. They paused in the middle of their discussion when Argenta burst in. Augustine's dark eyes took in the situation in one glance, nodded a brief greeting at her, and then took his leave, closing the door quietly behind him. 

“Argenta, darling,” Andrea said calmly. “Is this a discussion that can wait?”

“That Clara Skye needs to go,” Argenta growled. 

“I told her to stay away from your closet,” Andrea said with an amused smile.

Argenta made a noise of disgust, not in the mood for her mother’s attempts to disarm her anger with humor. “She needs to go.”

“And why is that?”

“You know why.”

Andrea folded his hands on his desk. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

“Then we’ll keep having it until she goes,” said Argenta. “Everything I’ve built is at risk.”

“Everything we’ve built,” Andrea corrected. 

Argenta paused. “We built this show together,” she said, “It’s ours. I’m coming down here more often now. Why do you need Clara? Put her somewhere else, if you want to keep her, like in Julie’s show.”

“Clara’s proved quite popular,” Andrea said. “She got rave reviews despite being a little... unpolished.”

Argenta snorted in response to the understatement. 

“She’s good for the show.”

“She’s a tramp.”

“People like a little variety these days. And what do we do here at the Honeybee, but help people fulfill their heart’s deepest desires?”

Argenta’s fingers clenched in her skirt. Clara Skye was a risk to her. If she found out who Argenta really was...if she told...the consequences were too horrible to imagine, but she’d never ever get to be Argenta Rhodea again, and without being able to inhabit that other side of herself, she might as well be dead. It was the only way she wanted to live. There was no Sephiroth without Argenta Rhodea either. How dare her own drag mother—the man who’d helped her actualize an entire half of her identity, who had first transformed her, who had taught her everything she knew about the art of drag—do this to her?

“I can’t believe you’re putting the show above me,” Argenta said, her voice full of hurt and disbelief. 

Andrea’s expression turned stony. “Is that what you believe I’m doing? After all we’ve done for each other? You think I would care more for money than family?”

Argenta threw up her hands. “How else does it look when you put some new queen in our show, in my room?”

“I don’t think Clara is the type to say anything if you asked her not to. Try to have a little faith in your fellow queens.”

“She barely deserves ‘queen.’ She’s just a crossdresser.”

“Argenta!” Andrea admonished sharply. 

Argenta and her mother regarded each other in silence. “What did she do for you when she auditioned?” Argenta asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What did she say to convince you?”

“For what she said, maybe you ought to ask her,” Andrea replied. “But she also danced for me, and very well I might add. She’s a little rough around the edges, but she reminds me of someone else I met around the same age.”

Argenta scoffed, wondering if she should be offended at Andrea’s attempt to compare the two of them. She had been much more refined than Clara at seventeen.

“I do not think you have anything to fear from Clara Skye. In fact, I think there is much you can teach her.”

Argenta straightened. Teach a new queen? Her? She hadn’t asked for such a thing. It should be Andrea’s job, he was the one who took her on. “I have nothing to teach her,” Argenta objected. “She looks like a pig in a wig. She doesn’t have the level of taste—”

“Argenta,” Andrea said gently. “I will tell you something that I do not think you have noticed. You are inspiring new queens. People who see what you do and what you are, and realize within themselves that they are the same and aspire to do the same things you do. You are helping people discover who they truly are, and that is a beautiful thing. It is the best thing you can ever do for our community.

“You are one of us, Argenta, and you always have been,” Andrea continued. “You may not have the luxury of kiki-ing with us, because of who you have to be during the day, but we have always accepted you. We welcome others into our ranks, and we teach them if they want to learn, as sisters and daughters. We will always protect each other. It is an honor to bear that responsibility and I hope that you can shoulder it with the grace that becomes the House of Rhodea.”

Andrea finished and sat back in his chair, while Argenta sat still, stunned for the moment by the intensity and the force of his words. Before she could think of an appropriate retort, Augustine cracked open the door. 

“Five minutes, Argenta,” he said simply. 

“Go wow our audience, my dear,” Andrea said to Argenta with soft encouragement, his voice once again suffusing with warmth, as if Argenta’s outburst had been nothing more than a momentary reaction of a wayward daughter who needed nothing more than a stern lecture to be set again on the right path. “In the way that only you can.”

Argenta rose, feeling conflicted, but putting those emotions to the side for the moment in favor of her patrons. She was Argenta Rhodea, the most beautiful queen at the Honeybee Inn. Her audience waited the better part of a year just to see her perform. She could steal a man’s breath away with a look, with just a swish of her hips. She walked out of Andrea’s office and glided backstage to the final few bars of Clara Skye’s song.

The roar of the audience was deafening, as Clara ended her number—hoots, hollers and shouts as loud as if Clara had just shot a winning goal in a sports stadium, and not just finished opening for a drag show in a theatre. Clara’s chest was still heaving when she retreated backstage. Her wig was askew and one breast had somehow ended up pushed higher than the other, but she was dry for the most part, minus the sweat on her brow. She still had her top on, which was an improvement from the previous time. 

Their gaze met as Clara walked past her. “Try to keep the energy up.”

Argenta sniffed. “Child, let me show you how it’s done.” Then, she put on her most dazzling smile and emerged on stage to even more raucous applause.


	21. Third Time’s the Charm

Cloud waited nervously outside the 8th Street Cafe, scanning the crowd milling about Fountain Place for the familiar mousy brown hair that belonged to Lieutenant Howard Kunsel. Kunsel had messaged him privately over Argenta’s forum, saying he wanted to meet and catch up. It was unseasonably warm for the autumn, and with the clear blue sky, the sun beat down on Cloud, baking him. He’d forgotten to put on sunscreen. Kunsel finally arrived, fifteen minutes late. It was the first Cloud had seen him since the end of EVR training, more than six months ago. Cloud was still hesitant to be too friendly to a higher ranked officer, but Kunsel clapped him on the back warmly, like he was Cloud’s big brother since neither was on duty. They sat down to eat on the outdoor terrace, thankfully in the shade of a large umbrella. Cloud almost balked at the prices on the menu, since he didn’t have much money left over at the end of the month after paying for everything that Clara needed. He was relieved Kunsel was treating. 

“So,” Kunsel eased him into the matter at hand after they’d ordered. “How’s everything going with you at the Honeybee Inn?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cloud bluffed, as smoothly as he could. 

Kunsel’s mouth twisted in amusement, and he pulled out his phone, placing it face up on the table between them. There was a picture of Clara Skye on the display, pulling a cheap thong from her bra, pretending she’d woken up in the middle of a party to find her underwear there. The audience had loved it, especially when she’d kept pulling them out as the song progressed. A few photographs of Clara had made it onto Argenta’s forums along with the review of her second time performing, but not the one Kunsel was showing him. 

“Where did you get that?”

“I have my sources.” 

“Were you there?” Cloud asked. He should have felt mortified at his secret evening hobby being exposed, but instead he felt eager. What did Kunsel think? Had he liked it?

“Like I said, I have my sources,” Kunsel repeated. He leaned in conspiratorially. “Let me rephrase. How is Miss Clara Skye doing at the Honeybee? I like the name, by the way.”

Cloud heaved a sigh, there apparently was no keeping things from Kunsel. “Good,” he admitted. “I’m getting a regular slot.” Cloud was unable to help a small grin from spreading at sharing the news. Andrea Rhodea himself had asked Clara to become a permanent opening act at the Diamonds and Destiny revue, and even before Andrea had gotten to describing the terms of the agreement and his pay, Cloud had said yes. 

“A regular slot? In Argenta’s show?”

Cloud nodded, his grin growing wider. When Kunsel put it like that, he could hardly believe it either. 

“Damn,” Kunsel whistled. “And how long have you been doing drag?”

“Two, three months?”

Kunsel retrieved his phone, looked back at the photo, and then glanced back up at Cloud. “Well, it doesn’t seem to be your mug that got you the job, that’s for sure.”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my face!” 

“I didn’t say there was. I mean, there’s hardly anything on it.”

Cloud scowled. If Kunsel had come all the way out to Sector 8 to shade him, he was going to go. He still had some shopping to do, after all. He wanted a new pair of pumps and another wig, maybe something that would stay on his head instead of always being in danger of flying off. 

“It’s a compliment,” continued Kunsel. “You don’t need it. You’re fishy enough as it is. You know what ‘fish’ means, right?”

“Of course I know what ‘fish’ means! I’ve been on the forums for forever now!”

Kunsel chuckled. “It’s been a while since the Honeybee has had a new queen as fishy as you.”

Cloud considered Kunsel’s remark. “Is Argenta not fish?” He’d mistaken Argenta for a woman at first, so he’d always thought that other people would perceive her that way as well. 

Kunsel’s mouth twisted. “Depends on if you’re looking at just her face or the rest of her too, I suppose.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the rest of her,” Cloud said defensively. 

“No,” Kunsel said, “but she is very tall.”

Even Cloud was willing to concede that point. Even when Clara was wearing heels, she was face-to-face with Argenta’s bosom. “I think she’s fish,” Cloud declared. He thought that Argenta, if she cared, would like to be thought of that way too. She certainly seemed to care a lot about how she looked and how she carried herself compared to other queens. 

“Speaking of which,” Kunsel began. “You’ve been backstage with Argenta, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Cloud replied, trying to act nonchalant. 

“So do you know who she is?”

Cloud shifted uncomfortably. He had no idea how the knowledge would affect Sephiroth’s relationship with one of his own SOLDIERs, or how Kunsel would handle the revelation that the drag queen he’d been fanning over the past five years was actually his commanding officer. 

“She hasn’t told me anything,” Cloud said, after a pause. “We don’t really talk to each other since we kind of started off on the wrong foot.”

Kunsel raised an eyebrow. “I have the feeling there’s a story behind this.” 

He sounded amused, so Cloud related the entire tale, starting from having a nut pop out halfway through his audition for an opening as a Honeygirl to falling over in Argenta’s closet and smearing some makeup on her dress. By the end of the story, Kunsel was howling with laughter and wiping tears from his eyes. 

“So, you’re not on speaking terms, then.”

Cloud winced. “Not really.” He chose not to mention that Clara was no pushover and had clapped back at Argenta backstage on her second outing. It would be a miracle if Argenta ever spoke to her again, and Cloud had yet to actually thank Argenta for saving his life, and Roche’s life, that one night. 

Cloud lifted his head, remembering his friend. Roche still hadn’t responded to his messages, nor picked up the phone. He might want some distance, since Cloud had effectively rejected his advances, but it was strange that he hadn’t responded to Giselle or Tomas either, and those two were practically his best friends. 

“I just remembered about Roche,” Cloud said. “How is he?”

It was Kunsel’s turn to wince. “That’s the other reason I wanted to talk to you, because I figured you hadn’t heard yet.”

“Heard what?” asked Cloud, alarmed by the abrupt solemnity in Kunsel’s tone. 

“Roche had an accident.”

“Oh.”

“He’s alive,” Kunsel said hastily, “but something went wrong with the mako injection process, and he had a bad reaction.”

Cloud sucked in a breath of air, dismayed and expecting the worst. 

“I’m not allowed to give you the grisly details, but one of the major side effects he’s suffered, aside from all the physical trauma, is massive retrograde amnesia.”

“What’s that?”

“Memory loss. He doesn’t remember anything from before he woke up after the mako injection.”

Cloud sat in stunned silence as he tried to process Kunsel’s words into some sort of understanding. Their waiter arrived, set their food in front of them, and left without a sound. Kunsel waited patiently. The chatter of the table next to them sounded faint to Cloud’s ears, its occupants gesturing lively, but their voices seemed muted. Even the bustle of Fountain Plaza on a Saturday morning seemed remote, another world entirely from the small bubble that had suddenly enclosed the table he shared with Kunsel. 

“Nothing?” Cloud managed, after struggling against the tumult that swelled within him. “He doesn’t remember anything?”

Kunsel shook his head. “Very little. We had to tell him his name when he woke up. He didn’t know what he was doing at HQ. Actions and movements are familiar to him. So thankfully we don’t have to teach him how to shower or ride a motorcycle, but...there are substantial gaps.”

“Oh gods.” Cloud folded his head into his hands. “What about…” Cloud paused, the next word hitching in his throat. “What about people? Like you or me?”

“He didn’t even remember his family, even when we showed him pictures,” Kunsel replied. “So of course he couldn’t remember me either. I’ve been spending a lot of time with him, so he knows me now, but only since he woke up.”

“Shit,” Cloud breathed. He closed his eyes, forcing air through his lungs. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen Roche, in the courtyard of Shinra Headquarters, thrusting his gift in his hands—the seed of Clara Skye—and quickly turning and walking away. The image was nebulous in his head. Cloud couldn’t even remember what Roche had been wearing, whether he’d shaved or grown a little stubble on his chin. Roche was his friend, and though they’d both known the risks that SOLDIERs faced, he’d never thought once that something could go awry during training. It was the war, the missions and the monsters that were supposed to be dangerous, not the mako, not the normal stuff. 

“When did this happen?” Cloud heard himself asking. It was easier to ask and to focus on the answers, than on the fleeting impressions of Roche’s arm around his shoulders, the smell of paella at Genen’s food truck, the look of drunken concentration on Roche’s face at the shuffleboard table at The Sloshed Shoat. 

“End of July. He didn’t wake up until a couple of weeks later, though.”

Cloud closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Is he okay now?”

“He’s on an upward trajectory.” 

“Fuck. I should have found time to ask Zack about him.” 

“Zack Fair? You know Zack?”

“A little. We met on the Modeoheim mission.”

“You were there?”

Cloud hesitated. “How do you know about Modeoheim? The Turks told me it was classified top secret and that even high-ranked officers in SOLDIER weren’t supposed to know about it.”

“Let’s just say I’ve read the reports,” Kunsel replied with a shrug, but refused to divulge anything more. “So you know what happened to...uh...G and A.”

“Yeah, I saw them with my own eyes.”

“Fuck.”

They both fell quiet again. Cloud turned away to gaze at the fountain in the square, squinting as the autumn sun glinted off its waters. Some of the numbness from before faded as snatches of conversation from the night he’d spent talking to Roche a few streets over flitted through his mind. He remembered the weird looks they’d gotten from passersby, and he almost shivered at the memory of how the cold concrete had seeped through his uniform despite the warmth of the day. He hadn’t loved Roche in the way that Roche had loved him, but it still felt like a loss, a broken bridge leading nowhere, twisted metal and splintered wood dangling over a crevasse, and on the other side, shadows of what could have been if they’d met at a different place, in another time.

“Anyways,” Kunsel sighed. “There’s still hope that Roche might recover some memories, eventually. SOLDIER’s gonna keep him around, because he’s strong as hell, but I just want to let you know, he might not be the same person he used to be before.”

“That’s awful,” Cloud murmured.

“I’m not sure he sees it that way. He doesn’t remember who he was. You don’t miss what you don’t know, right? It’s just awful for us, who used to know him.”

Kunsel paused, and they both picked at their food half-heartedly. 

“The doctors say that taking him to familiar places or making him do familiar things will be good for him. Jog his memories, or at least help forge new connections. Can I ask you to help?”

“Of course,” Cloud said. “What were you thinking?”

“Getting his friends together for a ride or some motorcycle stuff,” Kunsel suggested. “And also maybe a trip to the Honeybee.”

Cloud narrowed his eyes. “Hold on, are you asking me for Argenta tickets?”

“It’s for a good cause,” Kunsel grinned, not looking the slightest bit ashamed. “And I took you the first time, so now that you’re on the inside, you can help a guy out, right?”

“I’m not sure I can,” said Cloud dubiously. He was pretty sure the contract he’d signed with Andrea—not that he’d read it closely—didn’t contain anything about free tickets. “No promises.”

Kunsel shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’ll still come out for a ride, though, sometime?”

“I’ll tell Giselle and Tomas. They were closest to him. I don’t have a bike. But let us know when you need us, and we’ll show up.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“You’re a good guy, you know. For looking out for Roche.”

Kunsel smiled wanly. “Just doing my job.”

For the rest of lunch, they tried to find other, more cheerful things to talk about.

* * *

Cloud took a deep breath and opened the door to Argenta’s dressing room. He had to remind himself it was partly his dressing room now too. Like the last time, Argenta was already seated at her table, refining her makeup. The atmosphere remained chilly as she glanced up in her mirror, her disdainful expression the only acknowledgement to Cloud’s “Hi.”

At some point, they would need to have a talk, or at least come to an agreement, preferably between Argenta and Cloud, and not involving Clara, who was way too mouthy and impudent for him to control. 

“Look,” Cloud began, as he unpacked his things. “I just want to apologize again for going into your closet without permission. They weren’t my things, and I shouldn’t have gone in. I’m sorry if I ruined anything. I just really admire your artistry, and seeing your things reminded me of my favorite looks of yours. But that’s not an excuse for poking my nose where it didn’t below. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Cloud waited in silence as Argenta selected a brush, dusted it off on a cloth, and carefully applied more highlight to the bridge of her nose.

“Apology accepted.” Argenta’s words didn’t sound particularly heartfelt, but a response, however grudging, was better than none. 

“And I knew you probably didn’t ask for some new queen to come and open for your show, but I wanted you to know that I wouldn't be here without you.” _In more ways than one,_ Cloud thought. He was really pushing it, continuing to engage with Argenta when she was getting ready, so he stopped himself short of spilling out everything in front of her. 

Argenta turned to regard him, instead of looking at his reflection. She studied him, a slightly downward turn to the corners of her mouth before that mask of professional disinterest slid over her features once more. 

“Thank you,” she said, and then returned to her work. “Andi says you’re good for business.”

Cloud waited for her to continue, but it appeared she wasn’t going to say anything more. “Um...thanks?” Timidly, Cloud unpacked Clara’s outfit, a Wutai-style dress in leopard print vinyl with a high collar, but revealing more thigh than it covered, just a few inches short of what was considered tasteful. It was a little different from Clara’s usual, the style was just becoming popular with young women around the age of twenty. If Argenta had any opinions about Clara’s choice of wardrobe, she kept them to herself. 

‘“What did you say to Andi?” she asked instead.

“Huh?” 

“What did you say to Andi during your audition that convinced him to pair you with me?”

Panic began to rise within Cloud. He didn’t know what Andrea Rhodea had said to Argenta. Did she know that he knew, and did she know that he’d been to Modeoheim, that he had been one of the last people to see her friends alive? No, if she knew everything, she would have asked a different question. 

“I told him I’m a fan,” Cloud answered, simply, hoping that Argenta wouldn’t clock the glaring lie of omission.

She eyed him skeptically.

“And I was moved by your recent performances,” Cloud added quickly. “The new one. The one with you dressed all in black.”

“I’ve only done that one once so far.”

“I got in on the lottery,” Cloud replied. “Got that VIP table in the center front.”

Argenta’s eyes narrowed. “That was you?” 

Cloud shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Of course Argenta would have noticed that the occupant of that particular table had changed from someone in an expensive suit or dress into some ratty-looking kid in jeans. 

“Did you like it?” Argenta asked, so softly at first that Cloud almost wasn’t sure she’d said anything.

“It was the most inspiring and heartbreaking performance I’ve ever seen,” Cloud replied, without hesitation. “I cried at the end of it.”

Something shifted in Argenta’s expression—perhaps a mix of contentment and satisfaction softening her features. Cloud didn’t know how to read her, but that was the only way he could think to describe it. 

Argenta’s lashes lowered and she turned back to her mirror, distant and wistful. “Thank you,” Argenta said again after a long pause.

Cloud had to turn to his dressing table and fuss with his foundation to cover up the reddening of his cheeks. A rush of pleasure suffused him, because he had managed to say something nice to Argenta and have it accepted. _Keep this up, Clara. Don’t blow it,_ he thought. 

“One last thing,” Cloud said. He was starting on his eyes now, and he felt Clara’s sass coming on stronger the more of her painted on his face. He wanted to patch things up that last little bit before she could ruin it. “I know you’re really private about your identity,” he began. Argenta stiffened, but he continued. “So I’m not going to ask you about it, and I’m not going to say anything to anybody either. You’re Argenta Rhodea, and that’s all that matters. I don’t want you to feel as if you’ve always got to watch your back around me.”

Argenta’s brows rose slightly. She put down her brush. “You’re not even going to ask one question?” 

“Nope.”

“Not even if I’m really Rufus Shinra?”

“Nope. But if you want me to call you Rufus, that’s gonna be a hundred gil an hour.”

The very corners of Argenta’s lips turned upward. She made a noise of mild disgust, and started fixing the edges of her lipstick. 

Clara smirked and shimmied her shoulders. “So, whaddya think, Rufus? You wanna have a good time?” 

Argenta’s gaze met hers in the looking glass. She opened her mouth, licking the edges of her teeth with a seductive smile, before she said, “I’ll pass.”

Clara snorted, and they both turned their attention back to their makeup. 

Argenta had long finished by the time Clara wiggled into her dress. It had taken her a bit longer to do her makeup than anticipated—she’d spent extra time on her eyeshadow and she didn’t have much left until the curtain call. She threw her wig on, adjusted it quickly, and was about to rush out the door when Argenta called out to her.

“Wait.”

Clara pausd and turned, arms akimbo, wondering what acerbic remark Argenta had about her drag. 

“If you don’t want your wig to fly off, you have to pin it down.”

“It’s not a lace front, so I can’t.”

“It doesn’t have to be a lace front for you to pin it.”

“Oh.” Clara hadn’t known that.

Argenta grabbed a handful of bobby pins from her cosmetic bag, and beckoned Clara to come closer. “If you pin through the wig and into your hair underneath, it’ll hold as well as glue,” Argenta said. “Even for a wig as cheap as that.”

Clara saw her suppress a look of distaste as she spread the slick, plastic fibers of Clara’s wig apart to reveal the netting underneath. “It’s all I can afford,” Clara attempted to explain. 

“Then start saving,” Argenta said, and stuck a pin through Clara’s wig. It pierced her cap, caught her hair, and jabbed against her scalp. She jumped.

“Ow!” Clara protested. She turned to Argenta, scowling, wondering if Argenta was hurting her on purpose.

“Stop being a drama queen and get better wigs.” She turned Clara back around and prepped another bobby pin.

“I’m trying to save up!”

“Try harder.” Argenta continued moving through Clara’s wig, pinning in all different directions, and not being gentle about it. 

“Ow!” Clara exclaimed again. 

Argenta muttered a short apology, but continued. 

“You’re ruining my wig cap!”

“Then buy more. Small price to pay for keeping your hair on, no?”

Clara felt her head must look like a porcupine's when Argenta’ finished, but she looked fine in the mirror. She tossed her head side to side experimentally and found to her amazement that the wig didn’t budge. She flung her head in circles, but it stayed put. 

“It worked!” she exclaimed, delighted. Her wig was a mess now, but even the cheap, synthetic fibers looked fantastic swinging from side to side. 

Argenta’s expression darkened momentarily with annoyance, as if to say ‘Of course it worked, how long do you think I’ve been in the business?’ but she bit her tongue and merely rolled her eyes once. 

“If I start bleeding from the brain, though, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Get out of here,” Argenta narrowed her eyes. 

Clara grinned and sprang to her feet. This was the first time she wasn’t scurrying downstairs, driven away by Argenta’s temper. “Thanks,” she said cheerily, and managed to avoid pushing her good luck by adding ‘grandma’ at the end as a dig at Argenta’s age, or rather, the era of movie star glamour that her drag alluded to. Nevertheless, Clara couldn’t avoid a cheeky wave as she shut the door to their dressing room. 

It had been a mere three weeks since their last show together. They were becoming more frequent, and the Honeybee’s patrons were starting to become accustomed to seeing Argenta on a regular basis, instead of sporadically. Clara and Argenta would get to see more of each other, if they managed to keep this up. 

Clara took her place backstage, shivering with excitement at the prospect of dancing her heart out for Argenta’s audience. Miss Kelly was waiting for her backstage. She gave Miss Kelly a nod. The lights hit, the music started, and Clara Skye pranced onstage.

* * *

Zack gave Aerith her goodnight kiss around the corner from her house. He’d met her mother, Elmyra, a handful of times, and gotten the distinct impression he’d better keep it tame around her, and make sure to bring her daughter back on time at nine o’clock in the evening. At one minute before the hour, he brought Aerith back to her front porch. They both stood around, wanting to spend more time together, but knowing they'd have to wait another day. Zack gave her one last, chaste peck on the cheek and let her slip inside to where Elmyra was waiting for her at the kitchen table. 

Zack dallied a bit in the garden on the way out, marveling at all the flowers that grew there, at the clear water running slowly through her backyard. The stream glowed faintly in the darkness, and he realized there must be a small vein of untapped mako running beneath it. It was tranquil there, even more serene than the abandoned church they spent most of their time in when they wanted to be alone. 

Zack almost sat on the bridge, fancying dangling his legs over the edge like a kid when he spotted Aerith’s mother at a window, watching him. Elmyra had never been anything but courteous to him, but even he sensed the disapproval behind her polite demeanor. She was not a friend of Shinra, nor impressed by the fact that Zack was a SOLDIER First Class. Rather than draw even more of her ire, Zack hurried onward through the streets that would lead him back to the station. Nothing left but to head back to barracks.

The undercity was beginning to grow on him, despite disastrous first impressions. Even at this time of night, the Sector 5 slums were boisterous, small rickety cafés occupied with friends and family catching up, not so much eating as just gathering for conversation and company, letting almost any old passerby get a word in on a discussion or debate. There was warmth here, a sense of community, a bond forged by the mutual struggle of barely scraping by. It was nothing like the chill distance of life on the plate above them.

Zack had been spending some more time here of late. Major Varma had only been assigning him pithy, minor day missions, and as a First, he was allowed to use his free time as he pleased. Sephiroth had even hinted he didn’t mind if Zack was down in the undercity more often, so long as he kept his eyes and ears out of anything associated with Lazard’s disappearance or any significant anti-Shinra activities. Pretty much half of the slums were anti-Shinra, Wutai sympathizers, so Zack had yet to uncover anything of note to report to his commanding officer. 

A few of the Sector 5 residents nodded at him as he passed—he was Aerith’s boyfriend, and he’d been spending some of his free afternoons at the Leaf House orphanage, so that put him in their good graces. A couple of others scowled, because unfortunately his SOLDIER status and association with Shinra negated whatever street cred he had from being associated with Aerith. Even those that glared at him in passing, knew to leave him alone, especially after a few personal brushes with the years of combat training that SOLDIERs First Class undertook. He didn’t even need to draw the Buster Sword for the type of guys who harried him down here.

Zack sauntered down the lane toward the station. It was a little out of the way of the slums proper, and there was an awfully quiet stretch of broken streetlamps where he’d been jumped a couple of times in the past. Nobody messed with him now, but there was a gang of five men he didn’t recognize kicking a body that was crouched on the ground. 

“Hey! What’s going on here?” Zack shouted. Most sensible people would have minded their own business, but Zack Fair wasn’t about to watch somebody get beaten to death anywhere in Midgar without intervening. 

One of the men turned around and motioned for him to move along. “Mind your own fucking business!”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Zack asked, undeterred. 

The body on the ground groaned, as the onslaught paused, and all five turned their attention to Zack.

“You wanna end up like this guy?” asked one of them. “If not, you better back off.”

“Actually, I should be asking you to back off,” Zack said. “I ought to tell you to get outta here, before you all end up like him.” He cocked his head toward their victim, still approaching in a relaxed fashion, with his hand stuffed into his pockets.

The first man sneered. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Zack Fair, SOLDIER First Class.”

Howls of laughter echoed in the night. “Yeah, right.”

“Nice try.”

“There ain’t no fucking SOLDIERs down in the slums.”

Zack shrugged. “There’s at least one,” he grinned.

Their leader sneered, taking in the Buster slung on Zack’s back. They brought out their own weapons—bats, knives, brass knuckles. He didn’t even need to say anything before they rushed forward.

All five came at Zack at once, from all directions. He sidestepped the assailant right in front of him and let the man stumble past, catching him the side of the neck with a quick strike from the edge of his hand. Zack pivoted around and caught the next guy in the knee with the toe of his boot, feeling a satisfying crunch of bone as the man tumbled into the dirt. A knife flashed in the flickering street lights, aimed for Zack’s side. Zack twisted and caught the edge of it against the broad side of the Buster, still strapped to his back. He didn’t need to dirty Angeal’s sword against these small fry. Zack took out Brass Knuckles with a punch and swept a leg around to trip up Knife Man. Zack kicked it out of his grip, and it went skittering across the dirt path. In a matter of seconds, only the one with the bat was left standing. 

Zack pointed at them. “You guys gonna scram or not?” 

Bat nodded quickly and dropped his weapon. He helped his compatriots up, and they limped off into the night, dragging one of their unconscious friends between them. 

“And don’t let me catch you out here ever again!” Zack shouted after them. He immediately knelt to check out the man who they had attacked, still curled in the dust.

He looked about Zack’s age, his face bloodied and bruised. He was breathing and conscious, though barely. Zack pulled some magic through the Cure materia slotted into the Buster, and though it didn’t completely mend the man’s injuries, it reduced the swelling of his face and revived him enough that he could stand if Zack helped him up and gave him a shoulder to lean on. Slowly, they hobbled back to Sector 5. 

“Someone get a doctor!” Zack yelled out as they approached the center. A couple of folks at the café spotted them, and scrambled off as instructed. 

An old woman seated out on her porch, enjoying the cool, night breeze, hauled herself out of her chair to assist Zack, and brought the man to sit in her chair. 

“You’re Cole, Ed’s boy, aren’t you?” she asked.

The young man nodded. 

“They try to drag you back to the Don?” 

Cole nodded again, and the woman sighed. 

“What’s going on?” Zack asked. “Who were those guys?”

“The Don’s men,” the woman replied. “Cole used to work for ‘em, taking care of his beasts for the Coliseum, but he had to put one down on the other week, because it was the humane thing to do. Unfortunately, the Don wasn’t happy about that, and Cole had to run away to escape the Don’s wrath.”

“The Don?”

“Don Corneo. The guy that runs all the crime here in the slums,” the old lady replied. “You best not get involved if you don’t know who he is.”

“Kinda too late for that,” Zack said wryly. “Since I beat up his dudes and all that.”

“Then you just better hope you beat them so soundly they don’t come find you for payback,” the woman advised, gravely. “The name’s Mireille, by the way.”

“I’m Zack Fair.” 

“I know,” Mireille said dryly.

Zack stood by with Mireille until the doctor and his team came for Cole with a stretcher. They did a quick assessment, deemed him healthy enough to move, and then carted him off. There wasn't anything else for Zack to do once Cole was gone, so he bid Mireille a good night and headed back toward the station. He spent the ride up the Corkscrew Tunnel contemplating the old woman’s warning. If those were the best guys the so-called Don What’s-His-Name could come up with, Zack wasn’t worried.


	22. Like New

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Zack said as they mounted their motorcycles in the garage of Shinra HQ. “It’s pouring outside.” On cue, a peal of thunder rumbled around them. 

Roche merely chuckled. “You scared?”

Zack was nowhere near as good a rider as Roche or Kunsel, so yes, he was scared, because he might skid on those two motorcycle wheels trying to keep up with those maniacs, and he was too young to die. There was so much he hadn’t done yet with Aerith, and it would be a pity for his handsome and talented ass to bite it in a vehicular collision. He glared first at Roche, and then at Kunsel, who was responsible for this outing. 

Kunsel shrugged, both in apology for dragging Zack along and for Roche’s attitude. He didn’t used to be like this, Zack understood, but the tainted mako serum had done a number on him. Few of the SOLDIERs had been told what had really happened, but Zack knew, because of Lazard’s connection with Hollander and Genesis, and Kunsel knew, because—well, Zack wasn’t sure how Kunsel knew, but he seemed to know more than everybody else all the time, so he hadn’t bothered asking why. 

“Where’re we going?” Roche asked, unfazed by the weather. They revved up their engines. 

“To visit some friends,” Kunsel replied. 

“Your friends or my friends?”

Kunsel didn’t answer, pretending not to hear, and they headed off.

Zack could hear Roche whooping as he sped past in the rain, heedless of the hydroplaning on the puddles dotting the Midgar Highway. Roche wasn’t allowed out unless there were two escorts with him of at least Second Class. He suffered from sudden cluster headaches and mood swings, which made him unpredictable. He was still getting used to his strength—he was almost as strong as a First, but untrained and undisciplined. If he unleashed in a crowd of ordinary folk, he could easily kill a dozen or two people. The doctors were optimistic that he’d be able to function normally as a SOLDIER eventually. He had already returned to training with some of the Thirds in a limited capacity, but the doctors were much less optimistic about the return of his memories. If they didn’t return, he’d have to choose to give up and make new ones, they’d said, rather flippantly in Zack’s view. Damn Shinra doctors. But Kunsel wasn’t about to give up yet, hence the trip outside of the headquarters, and Zack was the only other person who’d volunteered his time on a weekend. He had the feeling Luxiere was available too, but he tended to make himself scarce whenever Kunsel went around asking for help with Roche.

It was a good thing that Zack knew where they were going, because both Kunsel and Roche sped so far ahead of him he wasn't even left in the wake of their tail lights. They were nowhere to be seen at all. By the time he pulled into the PSD barracks in Sector 2, Kunsel and Roche had already parked their bikes. Zack was prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon off in a corner, entertaining basic PSD questions about SOLDIER or texting with Aerith on his phone, but amongst the friends who gathered to greet Roche, he recognized a familiar shock of blond, spiky hair. 

“Zack!” Cloud exclaimed. 

“Oh, hey, it’s you!” Zack grinned. He remembered that little Specialist from the Modeoheim mission. They'd bonded about both being country boys. So much had happened since, he’d forgotten to get in touch so they could catch up. 

They were assembled in the lounge, Cloud and Zack off to one side as a young woman with a dark ponytail and a tall man with short cropped dark hair approached Roche. Zack watched as Roche regarded them warily, no recognition in his gaze. The two were doing a good job of not letting their heartbreak show, the girl better than the guy. 

“Those two his friends?” Zack asked. 

“Yeah. Roche had a group of gearheads at training camp who hung out with him. Giselle and Tomas were the closest, though.”

“Aren't they your friends too?”

“I guess. But I’m not crazy about motorcycles the way they are.”

“How did you get to know Roche, then?”

“How does anyone meet Roche?” Cloud smiled. “I guess I really started to get to know him the night Kunsel took us to the Honeybee Inn.”

“Oh, so you’re the other one who Kunsel took!" Zack said. "Those were supposed to be my tickets!” 

“You’re the one who dropped out!” Cloud gasped.

“Not by choice,” Zack explained. “I got assigned a mission at the last minute.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I guess if that’s where you got to know Roche, then it was okay.”

Cloud’s cheeks colored, and he quickly cast his gaze elsewhere. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he agreed awkwardly. 

What was up with that reaction, Zack wondered. He glanced at Cloud, glanced at Kunsel, and then back at Roche. Oh man, did Cloud have a crush on Roche or something?

“I’m really sorry, man,” Zack said, sympathetically. 

Cloud lifted his head. “Roche was—is?—a friend. I owe him a bunch.”

“You should go tell him.”

“I know, I’m just waiting my turn.”

Bits and pieces of Giselle and Tomas' conversation floated to Zack. They were talking bikes—Roche had no trouble remembering rotors and transmissions and oil regulators. Zack had had a passing interest in motorcycles as a teenager, but he’d grown out of that, mostly because growing up in backwater Gongaga had meant he couldn’t afford the nice stuff, so he could only follow about half of the chatter. 

“If you don’t get in there,” Zack told Cloud, “you’re never gonna get a word in edgewise. I know the type.”

Cloud looked reluctant. 

Zack gave him a nudge with his elbow. “Go on,” Zack added, trying to sound encouraging, and glad that it wasn't him having to have that talk.

* * *

“Oh, um, we should go over there and have a chat with that SOLDIER,” Giselle said, as soon as she saw Cloud approach. She tugged Tomas along with her. It was exactly the kind of awkwardness that Cloud had been hoping to avoid. Giselle gave him a meaningful look as she went past, shoving Tomas ahead of her. Cloud had neglected, in all this time, to tell her that he hadn’t returned Roche's crush on him, but it was too late for that now. 

“Hey,” Cloud said. Roche was sitting at one of the empty tables near the kitchenette, a mug of coffee sitting untouched in front of him. There was precious little hospitality to offer in the PSD barracks. He wondered if Kunsel had taken Roche to his parents’ place yet, if he’d been to visit his family and his brother, Genen, but he was too afraid to ask, because he was afraid of the answer. 

“Hey,” Roche replied. He looked at Cloud, the same way he’d looked at Giselle and Tomas, like they were strangers—people to be polite to, but people he didn't know. His hair was slightly longer in the back, a few months of growth uncut, but otherwise, on the surface he appeared to be the same old Roche. Not even the rain had done anything to the shape of his pompadour. “I guess you’re another guy I’m supposed to know, but don’t.”

Cloud smiled wanly. “You probably had a lot of friends.”

“Probably? Shouldn’t you know?”

“I’ve never met all of them. I guess I was gonna meet them someday, but…” Cloud trailed off, not certain the rest of that sentence was going where he wanted it to. He berated himself mentally for making it awkward. 

“So, what’s your name?”

“Cloud Strife.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I’m sorry,” Cloud murmured. “Does anything, anybody here ring a bell?”

“No,” said Roche glumly.

“Okay. Sephiroth? Rufus Shinra? Argenta Rhodea?”

“That first one, yeah, but only because I’ve seen him around. He’s supposed to be the greatest SOLDIER or whatever, and he stopped by the other day to ask how I was doing. The second one, guessing by the name, some head honcho in the company. Third?” Roche shrugged. “No clue. Why are you asking?”

“No reason, we just used to talk a lot about those three, is all.”

Roche frowned, confused. “Why would I be talking about a Shinra? And who is that last person?” 

“A drag queen.” 

Roche frowned, considering the answer, and perhaps the matter-of-factness of Cloud’s response. “She hot?” he asked finally. 

Cloud felt his cheeks heat. “Uh…”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then.”

Cloud smiled very tightly. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

“Huh?”

“Show me. You got a pic?”

“Yeah.” Cloud fumbled his phone out of his pocket. 

“That reminds me.” Roche pulled his phone out too. “I was looking through my messages the other day.” He shoved a picture in front of Cloud’s nose. “Is this you?”

Cloud paled, and almost dropped his cell. Shit.

“So are you Argenta Rhodea?”

“Oh, no,” Cloud shook his head. He looked around quickly to see if anyone else was listening. Giselle and Tomas were chatting with Kunsel and Zack, but Cloud was sure that Kunsel's hearing was keen enough that he could detect the words ‘Argenta Rhodea’ from a mile away. Cloud tabbed through his gallery, and found one of his favorite pictures of Argenta, the one Roche himself had snapped of her dressed as Shiva. “That’s Argenta.”

Roche studied the picture, and let out a low whistle. “Damn,” he said, and then he picked up his phone and compared it with the dark selfie of Clara. “You’ve got a long way to go, if you don’t mind me saying so.” 

“Thanks,” said Cloud sardonically. _Way to make a girl feel good,_ he thought sourly. “I just started a few months ago.”

Instead of apologizing, Roche acted as if it made sense. “You got time then,” he said simply. “I mean, at least, you’re not like, on stage with her or something.”

Cloud groaned. “I am, actually.”

Roche guffawed. “You’re fucking shitting me.”

“I open her show.”

Roche wrinkled his nose and sucked his breath in with a hiss. “Okay, wow, she must be real nice, then.”

“She’s a bitch and a half, but thanks for the reminder.”

Roche put his hands up. “I’m just keepin’ it real.”

“You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Yeah, my brother always said that was my best trait.”

Cloud stiffened. “Your brother? You remember him?”

Roche paused, also surprised. “I...don’t know,” he said slowly, growing troubled. “I just said it, but I don’t remember him. I don’t remember anything about my brother. Or any of my family.”

Cloud bit his lip, watching as Roche’s expression grew more distressed. 

“Fuck,” Roche hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Roche shouted that last word, and all conversation in the room halted. “I fucking had it for a second.” Roche squeezed his eyes shut. “It just went, but his name is…”

“Oh, shit,” Kunsel muttered, and both he and Zack rushed over. 

“My brother’s name is…” Roche clutched his head in his hands, as if he was suffering a catastrophic headache. His shoulders and his back tensed, his muscles bunching, vibrating with volatile, explosive energy. “Why can’t I fucking remember?” he bellowed. Tears were leaking out the corners of his eyes, and he became more agitated until Kunsel put his hands on his shoulders, and tried to calm him down. Roche glared at Cloud, as if his inability to remember was all Cloud’s fault. 

“We should go,” Zack mouthed silently. 

Cloud nodded, numbly. 

“It’s okay,” Kunsel pulled up a chair beside Roche. “It’s still early days,” he said, in a calm and reasonable tone, “but we should probably start making our way back now. I think a ride might help clear your head.”

Roche took a few deep breaths, and then nodded. Kunsel helped him out of his chair, and led him out of the room, Zack following behind, making grateful gestures at Giselle, Tomas, and Cloud for their time. 

The lounge was silent when the SOLDIERs were gone. Tomas was the first one to break it. 

“Fuck,” he growled. “This fucking sucks.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge, and stormed off into his room, slamming the door so loudly it echoed down the corridor. 

Giselle and Cloud looked at each other and agreed. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer each for them. She tossed the can at Cloud, and he caught it. 

“I want to talk,” she said simply. 

Cloud nodded. He supposed it was time they sat down and had a chat. “Why don’t we go to my room,” he suggested, and they made their way down the corridor.

Giselle looked curiously around Cloud’s spartan room when he opened the door. He was certain she hadn’t missed the cosmetics on the shelf above his sink, nor the skimpy skirts hanging in his closet, but to her credit, she didn’t say anything, even though she was probably bursting with questions. He let Giselle sit on the only chair in the room while he perched on the edge of his bed. 

She started by taking a long draft of her beer. “How do you think Roche is doing?” she asked. 

“I dunno. What’s the right answer? How I want him to be doing or how he’s really doing?” 

Giselle took another swig of her beer. She didn’t have the answers either. “He seemed all right when we just talked about bikes and stuff,” she said instead. “We talked about us a bit too, but it just got uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.” 

“What did you two talk about?”

“Me. Him. The things we used to talk about that he didn’t remember anymore.”

Giselle grimaced.

“I know, I know,” Cloud said quickly. “I probably should’ve found something else.” Cloud wracked his brains for what else he would have said, but he didn’t remember anything else that he and Roche used to chat about, since Cloud wasn’t interested in bikes. He realized that he’d always been the one doing the talking when it was just the two of them—Argenta Rhodea, her forums, Sephiroth, whatever he was excited about at the time—and Roche had been the one doing all the listening. Cloud squeezed his eyes shut. Gods, he’d been such a colossal dick. He sighed.

“Does he remember how he felt about you?” Giselle asked hesitantly. 

Cloud shook his head. 

“I figured as much.”

“Yeah.” Cloud wasn’t sure how to feel about that, still. 

Looking back on the beginning of their friendship, he’d known, deep down that Roche had had a crush on him, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it consciously. He’d thought that as long as they treated each other as friends, he wouldn’t have to say no, or let Roche down. As long as Roche didn’t say anything, he could remain oblivious. And still hadn’t given Roche a straight answer when he’d gone into SOLDIER. Cloud still owed it to him, but Roche no longer needed it now, which was somehow worse.

He confided all this to Giselle, who judged him, but not too harshly, for his faults and fuck-ups. When it was her turn, she talked about how strange it was to see her friend again, but have the man on the inside be a stranger. She confided that she wanted Roche back, so they could all hang out in the way they used to, but she feared it was unfair to want that for him, when he didn’t even know what he wanted for himself yet. Did he want to reclaim the Roche Hoffman he used to be, or did he want a fresh start? Had anybody asked him that, or even given him that choice?

Cloud felt like a selfish asshole in the face of Giselle’s questions, but maybe that was what he rightly deserved. The two of them sat quietly when they finished their beers, too lazy to get up and go back into the lounge for more. Cloud didn’t even have a small fridge of his own in his room to store any booze, since there were other things he had to spend his money on. He looked around, noting Giselle’s attention wandering to the curios in his room now that they’d spilled their feelings about their friend. 

“Okay, I can tell you’re dying to ask,” Cloud said. “So ask.”

Gistelle heaved a breath, as if she’d been holding it for hours. “I just wanna know what’s up with all the women’s clothing and makeup, but I can probably guess since you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I could have a girlfriend, I’m bi!” Cloud pointed out. He hadn’t looked at a girl that way in a long time, save for Argenta Rhodea, but that counted, he decided.

“Yeah, but you don’t.” Giselle stared flatly at Cloud, until he confessed that he’d started doing drag and performing in Wall Market. Roche had encouraged him, but he’d had the inclination all along and just needed a push. 

“That explains where you go with that suitcase some Friday nights.”

“You see me sneak out?”

“You’re not the master of stealth you think you are,” said Giselle, unimpressed. 

Cloud spent the rest of the afternoon answering her questions about Clara, and talking about other light-hearted things. It was nice to spend time with her, and to have another person to share Clara with, because they needed to distract themselves from the Roche-shaped holes they both had in their hearts.

* * *

Roche’s shade was still echoing in the back of Cloud’s mind a week later when he opened the door to Argenta’s dressing room. Instead of sitting in front of the mirror, Argenta perched on the divan, intently flipping through something on her phone with quick taps of her lavender nails. She was dressed in a body-hugging gown of deep violet satin, with a long slit running up the side that revealed a calf and thigh so shapely that Cloud had to quickly avert his eyes to avoid blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. She glanced up as Cloud wheeled his things in. 

“Hi,” Cloud said. 

“Hello,” Argenta replied. She did not say anything else as her eyes slid back to her phone. They were both here earlier than they needed to be. Cloud wondered what time Sephiroth must have left the Shinra building to make it here, already fully dressed and painted, but he couldn’t ask. He sat down at the mirror, unpacked all of Clara’s cosmetics and brushes. He’d been trying to improve Clara’s makeup since Roche had made that remark a couple of weeks ago, but no matter what he did, Clara mostly looked the same, rough around the edges, like a girl putting her face on in a rush before dashing off to the clubs. That was Clara’s thing, but that couldn’t be Clara forever. When he tried contouring more, he ended up looking middle-aged, like Clara’s stimulant-addicted mother freshly released from the rehab clinic. He’d spent hours staring at pictures of Sephiroth and pictures of Argenta, trying to divine how she painted her face, to no avail. Roche was right, there was a chasm a mile wide between them of experience and technique. He didn’t know whether it was a matter of practice, or if there was something else he was missing. 

“Argenta,” Cloud began, as he picked up his foundation. “Can I ask you a question?”

Slowly, Argenta raised her head. She wasn’t saying no, so Cloud continued. 

“What do you think of my face?” 

Argenta opened her mouth to say something, but appeared to reconsider her words at the very last moment. “It’s a face,” she replied neutrally.

“That’s it?”

“It’s more than can be said of the first time you showed up.”

Clara frowned. “I want your honest opinion.”

Argenta snorted. “You do not want that,” she said.

“Okay, then the nice version.”

“I’ve already given that to you,” replied Argenta primly.

“I’m trying to improve here!” Cloud said, with mild exasperation. 

Argenta levelled him a flat stare. 

“Honest!” Cloud added. “I won’t be offended.”

Argenta’s mouth pressed into a thin, scarlet line.

“I’ll try not to, anyway,” said Cloud. Okay, he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t get pissed off, but he could try. “Please,” he begged, hoping Argenta would give him something he could work on.

“No tea, no shade,” Argenta began finally, “but your technique is basic, some of your products are subpar, and your blending is atrocious. Whoever taught you to paint should be embarrassed.”

Cloud felt his hackles rise instinctively, but he let out a breath, instead of defending his products and his limited budget. “Nobody taught me.”

“Nobody?”

“I learned by myself from reading tutorials on the network.”

“No wonder,” Argenta muttered. She put her phone down, and only narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. 

“Can you give me some tips?” Cloud asked, hopefully. 

Argenta began to bristle, as if to object. It wasn’t her responsibility to teach Clara how to beat her face, she wasn’t the one who’d hired her so inexperienced, but she took a breath to calm herself, and started again. “Where do you want me to start?”

Cloud looked at the time. They had almost two hours until curtain call. “Can you show me how you paint?”

“No,” Argenta snapped, clipping the end of Cloud’s question.

“I mean, on me,” Cloud clarified. “Show me what you would do, but on my face.”

“Oh.” Argenta glanced at the clock on the wall. “There’s not enough time to walk you through every step.”

Cloud looked crestfallen. 

“But I can paint Clara on you.”

Cloud brightened immediately. “Really?”

“I’ve never painted anybody else, though,” Argenta warned. 

“Never?”

“Of course not. Who do you think I am?”

Cloud grinned. “Ruf—”

“Don’t answer that,” Argenta glared at him, and Cloud snickered. “Even though I’ve never done this, I’m still certain I can do a better job of it than you can on your own face.”

“Uh, thanks,” Cloud said, not appreciating Argenta’s dig at his technique.

“Do you want me to or not?”

“Yes, please,” Cloud relented. 

Argenta heaved a belabored sigh, as if Cloud had coerced her into this and she hadn’t been the one who’d offered out of her own free will. She went over to his side of the bench, took one look at his brushes and powders, and asked, “Is that all you have?”

“In terms of brushes.” 

Argenta walked slowly over to her own side, her pace hampered by the tightness of her dress, and picked out a sponge and a handful of her own brushes, rubbing them clean on a cloth. She also brought glue, a better setting powder, and a few more shades of stick foundation. 

“The first thing you should do is your brows,” she said simply, and proceeded to rub his all over with what she said was a professional grade prosthetics adhesive. 

“Do I have to?” Cloud asked. 

“You’ll look better if you lift your brow bone with some highlight and redrew your brows. You can start with your natural eyebrow, here, in the center,” she said, “but you’ll look even more feminine if they were thinner and more arched.”

Cloud studied Argenta closely, while the powder set on his brow cover. He could see the hint of where Argenta’s eyebrows were, brushed flat and glued, with so much powder holding them down that the surface was almost smooth. She wasn’t using any of her own brow—hers were painted on instead slightly higher on her forehead, so meticulously and with so fine a brush that Cloud thought he could discern individual hairs. 

Argenta repainted Clara’s brows with a thin pencil and dark contour, teaching Cloud how to measure the angles and draw them in bit by bit to keep them symmetrical. The worst thing a queen could have was uneven brows, after all. 

“Practice this five times a day before the next show,” Argenta advised. “And it’ll start to come naturally.”

“Five times?!”

“Unless you think you can do it right away, yes, five times. The more the better.”

Cloud grumbled.

“If you’re afraid of hard work, don’t do drag,” Argenta said curtly.

Cloud mumbled an apology. He was afforded the opportunity to study Argenta as she carefully painted each hair on his brow. He could see that she had grey contacts in, imparting her gaze a cool ethereality. When her own pupils contracted into the vertical slits Cloud knew were beneath, he could detect the barest hint of the emerald glow of mako. He quickly averted his eyes, so as not to lend the impression that he was trying to figure out who Argenta was. Even this close, her makeup was so deft that he wouldn’t have been able to recognize the man beneath, if he hadn’t already known. 

With his eyebrows finally done, Argenta moved onto foundation, insisting on an orange cream for beard cover despite Cloud insisting that he barely needed to shave. She lent him one of her sponges, taught him how to blend his foundation evenly, and where on his face to put his highlights. 

“You have soft features already,” Argenta said, as she dabbed some highlight on his forehead, nose, and cheeks. “You paint too sharply. You’ll actually look more feminine if you don’t contour your nose so harshly.” She did the same with his cheek contour, diffusing it as she blended and using a lighter tone. She dotted a bit of contour under his bottom lip, for that extra pouty look.

“Most of the girls your age want to look older,” Argenta said as she began working on Clara’s eyes, selecting a more neutral, warm shade instead of Clara’s usual blue. “I think you’ll look better with a natural look.”

Argenta showed Clara where to draw her crease, how to blend her eyeshadow with three shades and several brushes, and how to line her eyes so she didn’t look like a racoon. Clara had never thought she’d looked like one, but when she voiced this, Argenta pursed her lips. Deciding that Clara’s lashes were too cheap, Argenta recommended her brand, but didn’t go quite so far as to lend Clara a pair. 

“I’ll let it pass for tonight,” she said, looking unimpressed as she arranged them on Clara’s lid, and told her to angle them slightly upward at the edges, lest she look like someone had punched her in the face before she took to the stage. 

“Do I look like that?” Clara asked.

“If you have to ask, you already know the answer.”

They rushed to put the finishing touches on Clara’s lips and get her into her vinyl top and skirt, because it was getting close to curtain call and Argenta had yet to touch up her own makeup, which was making her irate. 

“I finally saved up enough for a lace front,” Clara said proudly as she donned her wig, and let Argenta help her glue it down and pin the back edges. 

“Pity,” Argenta murmured as Clara gave her new hair an experimental toss. 

“Why?”

“I was looking forward to sticking pins into your skull again.”

“Ha!” Clara cackled. 

Argenta stepped away, and Clara finally got a good look at herself. She broke out into a grin. She looked like a girl who had given up drugs and boozing for a clean life. Compared to her old self, she glowed. When Argenta painted her, she was a spoiled rich girl, about to have a luxurious night out with champagne and VIP seating. It was not at all the look she was supposed to have for her song, but she figured that a wealthy brat about to party like the plebs was something she could pull off. How had Argenta done that, with just some shading and a different palette of colors?

“I look amazing,” Clara breathed. 

“You’re welcome,” Argenta sniffed. 

Clara fluttered her eyelashes at her own reflection, played with the tips of her hair, and puckered her lips. She was beautiful, not just pretty. Almost as drop-dead gorgeous as Argenta. Clara glanced enviously at the generous curve of Argenta’s hips and then back to her own, thin ones, and realized that in addition to all that makeup practice, she was going to have to do something about that hip padding. She noticed Argenta thinking the same thing. 

“I’ll get some pads for next time too,” Clara promised, hastily making for the door, with only a few minutes to spare. 

“Good,” Argenta said, seating herself at her table. 

“You know,” Clara added, before she left, “you’re not as nasty of a hag as you make yourself out to be sometimes.”

Argenta scowled. 

“There’s a real beautiful woman in there, especially on the inside,” Clara smirked.

“Get out before I kick you down the stairs,” Argenta growled. 

Clara laughed as she shut the door behind her, bounding down the stairs backstage. 

Miss Kelly gasped when she spotted Clara. “Clara! You look…”

Clara grinned. “Stunning?”

Miss Kelly laughed. “Or, I was going to say, like Argenta’s painted you.”

“Oh, is it that obvious?”

“Either that, or you’ve condensed a decade of experience into three weeks,” Miss Kelly said. “Now get on out there and wow them with the new you.”

“What if I can’t do the new Clara again?” 

Miss Kelly snorted. “You’re a fast learner. And practice makes perfect, right?”

That was what Argenta had said too. Clara sighed dramatically as Miss Kelly practically kicked her on stage. There was going to be a lot more practice in Clara’s future.

* * *

Clara was usually mostly done with packing up her things by the time Argenta swept back upstairs to change for her second performance. Instead of letting her finish, Argenta demanded that the girl unpack her makeup and sit down and practice painting. What else better did Clara have to do after all?

“I want to watch you perform,” Clara grumbled. 

It was a touching compliment, but Argenta said, “The best favor you can do yourself is practice,” and thus, Clara stayed late into the night until after the show was over, until Argenta judged that she had spent enough time in front of her own reflection to go home. 

Argenta was exhausted by the time Andrea came in with two glasses of white wine in his hands. Clara demanded so much of her attention.

“How are you doing, darling?” Andrea asked. 

“I hope both of those glasses are for me,” Argenta said. 

Andrea smiled indulgently, but only handed her one. “How’s Clara?”

Argenta snorted. “She doesn’t cinch, she doesn’t pad, her breasts are all over the place, and—”

“Besides all that,” Andrea said soothingly. “I haven’t heard either of you storming off or shouting at each other recently, so that’s an improvement. She must be behaving.”

“Barely.”

“She reminds me of a certain queen I took under my wing about ten or so years ago,” Andrea smirked. 

“I had much better taste.”

“Clara’s will mature, eventually.”

“When she can’t rely on that body anymore,” Argenta muttered. 

“Is that jealousy I detect, my dear?”

Argenta scoffed. Clara was small, she had little hips, thin shoulders, small hands, and tiny feet. She was able to wear women’s clothing off the rack, and she was able to wear women’s shoes, even if she had to go on the big end of the scale. She had a soft, feminine face, and Argenta hadn’t even had to beat it that hard. Meanwhile, Argenta was too tall, so she had to have every outfit made for her. Her feet were large, even for a man, so most of her shoes were custom ordered. Her shoulders were wide, so her hips had to be padded to hell and back again to accommodate the right proportions, not to mention her breasts, which had to be similarly generous in order to match the rest of her size. She had had so much to learn when she started, while Clara just had to throw on a wig and a bit of mascara. Of course she was jealous, but gods and goddesses be damned if she was going to admit that out loud. 

Perhaps reading her mind, but kindly preserving her dignity, Andrea took a sip of wine instead of remarking on anything. “Since the two of you seem to be trying to get along, I think it’s best we keep Clara as a permanent opener to your show.”

Argenta took a gulp of her wine. She, too, had noticed a change in her audience since Clara had started. There was more enthusiasm in the way they greeted her, more energy when they applauded at the end of a number. It was like the audience was having more fun, when previously they’d just been awed with her presence and artistry. Clara wasn’t just good for business, anymore. 

Later that night, when Argenta removed her makeup in the comfort and privacy of her own home, she found in her drawer a set of new brushes that she’d ordered earlier that year. She’d been meaning to replace a few of her own, but new brushes were always stiff and took a while to break in, so she hadn’t gotten around to using them yet. 

She set them aside in a conspicuous location, so she wouldn't forget to bring them down to Wall Market with her the next time she went. Heaving a grateful breath, Sephiroth unwound his hair, and headed off to take a much deserved shower.


	23. A Tenuous Connection

Zack immediately recognized the man he’d helped out a couple of weeks ago. Cole recognized him too, lighting up when he spotted Zack disembark at the Sector 5 station. Zack was pleased to see that some of his efforts were getting recognition around here. He was starting to feel like a regular, and even his wallet stopped leaving his pocket when he went around town. 

“You doing better?” Zack asked. It was hardly more difficult to be doing worse, considering that the last time he’d seen the young man, he was being carried away on a stretcher. 

Cole nodded eagerly. “All thanks to you.”

“You keeping out of trouble?” Zack continued. He sounded like a bossy uncle, but with the way things went in the slums these days, he was willing to take that hit to his image. 

Cole bit his lip nervously, his expression clouding over.

 _Uh oh._ “What’s up?” Zack asked, concerned.

“There’s trouble with my little sister,” Cole said. “It’s still with the Don.”

“Yeah? What happened?” 

“Same thing as me. She let some of the Don’s special pets go, ‘cause he wasn’t treating them right, and had to go on the run, like me. But now they’re cornering her in the scrapyard, and I don’t think they’re gonna let her off lightly. There’s a bunch of them and she’s just eighteen years old…”

“They’ve got her right now?” said Zack, alarmed.

Cole nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Zack asked, picking up the pace as he and Cole started at brisk pace toward the scrapyard. “And why haven’t you gone for help instead of waiting for me?”

Cole gestured around. “Nobody messes with Don Corneo around here. They’re not gonna help! If you cross the Don, you get what you deserve, that’s what the people around here think!”

“How long has it been since they found her?” Zack hoped she hadn’t been caught for long. There were a lot of nasty things a bunch of ruffians could do to a young woman, and Zack didn’t want to picture any of them. 

Wherever they were heading was out of the way, Zack thought, as they picked their way deeper and deeper into the abandoned scrapyard. Cole said his sister had gone into hiding, so Zack thought nothing of it as they wound their way around the husks of heavy machinery, the remnants of the great building project that had created the Midgar plates suspended above their heads. It was a jungle of rusted containers, corroded parts, mangled pillars and I-beams. As he ducked and squeezed himself behind Cole, he could see the imprints of several boots in the dirt. A lot of people had been by recently. 

They squeezed through an old metal pipe, wide enough for two men to crawl through shoulder to shoulder, and emerged into a clearing, where a handful of the Don’s lackeys in denim and leather jackets were gathered. All the scrap had been cleared to the perimeter. They had Zack almost surrounded as soon as he crawled out. There was no girl, but there were two snarling canines, some mix of wolf with Shinra’s genetically engineered hounds. They looked like the type of dogs that would tear a man to pieces if they were hungry enough, and from the way saliva dripped from their maws, they’d obviously been starved of breakfast. Zack recognized two of the guys as Brass Knuckles and Knife Man from the gang that had been beating up Cole.

 _Oh, great._ Just when he thought the folks in the undercity were done playing him for a fool. 

“Well done, Cole,” the leader of the group stepped forward, a man clad only in a studded leather vest and dark pants, and a length of black hair tied back in a short manbun. “You can go.” 

“I’m free now?” Cole asked. 

The leader sneered. 

“You promised!” Cole’s eyes flashed with anger. “I bring you Zack Fair, and you let me and my family off!”

Zack sighed. “So there’s no sister, huh?”

Manbun snorted. “What sister?”

“I’m sorry, Zack,” Cole said. “This was the only way out they offered.”

“Nah, there was another way,” Zack shook his head grimly. “You could’ve warned me in advance they’d forced you into a trap. I would’ve come anyway and beat the living shit out of them, just like I’m gonna do now.”

Manbun chuckled. There were about ten men that had Zack surrounded, plus the two dogs. “That’s a lot of big talk coming out of just one guy.”

“How many guys do I need to beat up before the Don stops chasing you?” Zack asked, turning to Cole and pointedly ignoring the Don’s little gang. 

“A whole fucking army,” growled Manbun. 

Zack looked around. “You call this an army? You haven’t seen a real army.”

“I think we got enough for one nosy Shinra punk.”

“Ten measly dudes and a couple of mutts?” Zack snorted. Sephiroth could take them all out in ten seconds, blindfolded. Okay, so he wasn’t Sephiroth, and he barely had a fraction of Sephiroth’s strength, but Zack had earned his promotion to First. SOLDIERs weren’t known as one man armies for nothing. He was certain that the Don would have sent three or four times the numbers against one of the slightly better known Firsts, like Lee-Rong or Wolfgang, who had made the rank for years now. Man, not even the bad guys down here gave Zack Fair enough respect. 

Zack didn’t bother giving any warning before he swung the Buster Sword from his back, turning and unleashing its fury in a wide arc around him. This was an ambush, and he had no pity if any of them were caught off guard. A quick Fira spell in the muzzle sent one of the hounds howling into a pile of detritus. He dodged the second one quickly as it pounced, ducking behind a man swinging a crowbar. The hound knocked Crowbar to the ground instead, and he went down with a blood-curdling scream. 

Don Corneo’s ten lackeys would have made easy work of anybody else in the undercity, even an elite PSD trooper with an array of weaponry, but Zack kept light on his feet, never staying in one place, stepping through blocks and turns, never letting the numbers work to his disadvantage. He shifted through the group fluidly, dodging and pivoting, never moving in a straight line, never where they thought he was going to be. He used the hilt of the Buster to strike ribs, and the broad side against heads. Huh, Sephiroth’s Octaslash was pretty good for getting out of a situation like this too, not just offense against a single opponent, Zack discovered to his delight. 

After thirty seconds of dealing blows, all ten men were groaning on the ground, with various states of broken bones, bruised kidneys, and concussions. The dog he’d roasted had disappeared into the scrapyard, and the other, with a broken muzzle, was cowering in the dust. Zack, meanwhile, had only suffered a bruised cheek, from some accidental bad timing that had resulted in contact with a fist. He’d lived through worse. 

Zack strode up to Manbun who was knocked flat on his butt, moaning up a storm, and nursing a shattered elbow. Zack swung the Buster Sword, cleaving through air, stopping just a hair from the skin of the man’s neck, perfectly controlled. 

“You go tell your friends and Don What’s-His-Name that if anybody comes and bothers Cole and his family again, they’ll wish they’d never been born the next time they run into me. Do you get me?”

Manbun spat at him, but Zack moved his head out of the way, and the splittle sailed through the air, landing harmless in the dirt. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He shouldered his sword and sauntered back the way he came. Cole had escaped during the tussle and was crouched by the other side of the tunnel, watching Zack emerge with trepidation. Cole whimpered and dropped to his knees on the ground, begging Zack not to hurt him. 

Zack thought of going off on him, but hell, the poor kid had just gotten mixed up with the wrong people. It wasn’t as if the folks here in the slums had much choice about how they made their living. 

“Next time they come for you, just tell me, okay?” Zack said kindly. “It’s gonna take a whole lot more than ten dudes to do me in.” He bent down to haul Cole to his feet, but Cole shrank away. 

With a sigh, Zack backed off, and decided to find his own way to Aerith’s church.

“Zack!” Aerith exclaimed as he walked in the door. “What happened to you?” she abandoned her flowers and rushed to her feet. 

“Got in a scrap, that’s all,” Zack shrugged. He winced as Aerith touched his cheek gingerly. He’d left his Cure materia back at HQ this time, so he’d have to put up with the soreness and swelling in the meantime. 

“Who did you fight with?” Aerith asked, her brows furrowed, not so much in concern for him, but for the bad behaviour of whoever had the guts to fuck with him. 

“You know the guys that beat up Cole that I told you about?” 

“You fought with Don Corneo’s men?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t mess with the Don’s men, Zack.”

“He messed with me first this time,” said Zack defensively. “I even let them land a hit on my handsome face.” He tried to grin at Aerith, but it hurt, so he stopped. 

Aerith sighed. “You’re lucky your face is all that’s messed up.” 

“Hey, I’m a SOLDIER First Class, you know. That’s the same rank as Sephiroth.”

Aerith folded her arms and stared at Zack with stern disappointment until he took it back. 

“Okay, okay, I’m nowhere near as strong as Sephiroth, but I’ll get there someday! Anyway, they’re gonna need to send a lot of more guys to take me down.”

“And what if they do?”

“I’ll fight them.”

“Is that all?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Give them a lecture? Draw them a picture? Do an interpretive dance?”

Aerith put her hands on her hips. “Does the word de-escalate mean anything to you?”

Zack grinned. “Is that the technical term for an escalator removal service?”

Aerith made a noise of disgust and turned her back on him, tending to her flowers once more, but Zack caught her in a big bear hug from behind—her favorite type of hug—and squeezed her tightly about the waist. 

“I guess I best enjoy your company before the Don beats you into a pulp,” Aerith said, after several minutes of Zack’s tight embrace had passed. 

“Sounds good to me,” Zack grinned. “That’s what I came for anyway.”

* * *

Argenta Rhodea arrived early at the Honeybee Inn. She greeted her fans as she usually did, with a silent smile, and was even feeling generous enough to sign some autographs before she went inside. It was only a few weeks away from solstice, and the weather had turned chilly and grey as autumn faded into winter. It gave Argenta the excuse to wear long coats, and she liked the look of a long scarf, a tightly cinched waist, and a hem that traveled halfway down her calves. 

Before she sat down at her dressing table, she placed the set of new brushes she had packed into her purse on Clara’s dressing table. It was earlier than usual for her to be touching up her makeup, but Argenta started anyway, since she had run out of time last time. She pretended aloofness when Clara arrived, realizing that she had yet to learn Clara’s boy name. Perhaps it was better she didn’t know, to keep Clara from asking hers. She would rather let Clara jokingly keep calling her Rufus than let her know the truth. 

“Hi,” Clara said. “You’re early again.”

Argenta glanced at the clock on the wall. “And so are you,” she replied evenly. 

Clara began to unpack her things, but paused, as she stared at the new makeup brushes laid out on her side of the dressing table, still in their original packaging. “Um, are these yours?” she asked, not daring to touch them. 

“They’re for you.”

“From who?” Clara asked, a grin spreading across her features. “Do I have a secret admirer?”

“As if anyone would openly admit to admiring you,” Argenta sniffed imperiously.

Clara snorted, and began setting out her own makeup. “You’re just jealous because yours have all died of old age.”

“At least the money I inherited from them was worth it.” Argenta said, returning Clara’s grin with an arch smile. 

She took a glance at the clothes Clara was unpacking, the same she’d worn for her first time performing, that tacky vinyl skirt and a similar white tank top, but this time, she had also brought some rudimentary padding. It was cut from upholstery foam, and a little rough around the edges. Clara had probably done them herself, while Argenta hadn’t made her own pads for years, preferring to pay somebody else for the effort.

“Thank you,” Clara said earnestly, dropping the banter. “For the brushes.”

Argenta waved away her thanks. “No trouble. Consider it a donation to the needy.”

“Oh, you shady bitch.”

Argenta pressed her lips together with satisfaction. 

“Thank you for teaching me last time, too.”

“Have you been practicing?” Argenta asked, as Clara daubed some orange cream on her fingers and spread it around her beard area. That was something she’d learned last time, Argenta noted. 

“Of course!” Clara scoffed. “What do you take me for?”

“An upstart who thinks that drag is just some high kicks and splits on a stage.”

“I kick only for you,” Clara simpered teasingly. 

“And the VIP row, surely.”

Their eyes met in Clara’s side of the mirror before they both turned back to their work. Argenta could tell there was a marked improvement in Clara’s blending from last they met three weeks ago, and that the shading on her face was softer. She was drawing her brows in the same sequence as Argenta had taught her, and remembering exactly where she had been shown to contour and highlight. Had been practicing, maybe even more than Argenta had instructed. The blending of her eyeshadow could still use some work, since the new brushes were particularly stiff, but her face was no longer the harsh, ashy embarrassment it had been on the first night. Argenta might be willing to acknowledge Clara as part of the House of Rhodea now, albeit a distant, inbred cousin. 

“What do you think?” Clara asked, when she finished and pulled on her wig—the same lace front as last time. 

“Finish getting dressed, and then I’ll tell you,” Argenta said, averting her eyes and turning toward the wall as Clara tucked and pulled on her tights. 

Argenta rose and leaned against the table as Clara pulled on her clothes, leaning against the table as she studied Clara closely, her arms unconsciously folded beneath her bosom. With her new hip pads, Clara’s skirt looked comically tight. They were too wide for her stature, and lumpy in odd places, like she’d shoved an old down pillow under her skirt. 

“Your hips are too big,” Argenta intoned. “It looks like you’ve shoved an entire roast chicken in there, and all the sides to go with it.”

“It’s not that bad!” Clara protested. “You’re the one who told me to get pads!”

“You need the right proportions,” Argenta explained patiently, gesturing to her own body as an example. “I have wide shoulders, so I have to balance them with my hips to get the proper shape. And right now, you look like you’re shoplifting under there.”

Clara sighed. She looked at her own reflection, and admitted that Argenta was right. She was a little too big, which could be a look, but what was worse was the lumpiness. “What do I do?”

“There’s nothing we can do now. You’re going to have to cut your pads down for the next time.”

“Fine,” Clara pouted. “How’s my face, though?”

“It’s a face.”

“Still?”

“Would you like me to tell you it’s not a face?”

Clara scowled. 

“It’s a nice face,” Argenta conceded. She was underselling Clara a little—too much praise went straight to a queen’s head, but she suspected that Clara looked how she wanted to look, like a pretty girl. 

Clara looked faintly pleased at Argenta’s compliment. It was getting close to curtain call, so she made for the door. Argenta followed, after checking herself one last time in the mirror. Clara stopped short. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

“Going backstage.”

“You usually come later. It’s not your turn.”

“Do you have a problem with me coming now?” Argenta inquired.

“No,” Clara said confused, but she let Argenta continue to follow her down the stairs. 

Miss Kelly’s brows rose in surprise to find Argenta and Clara both backstage for the start of the show, but she hid her shock well as she watched Clara take her position. Argenta wandered out far enough to where she had a view of the stage, but couldn’t be seen by the audience. 

“Are you going to watch me?” Clara asked, curiously. Argenta thought she detected hope in the girl’s voice. 

“No, I’m going to read a book,” Argenta replied. 

Clara grinned. “Don’t take your eyes off me,” she said, so softly that Argenta almost hadn’t heard. Then the beat dropped, and she marched on stage, as if she owned it. And for those five minutes that Argenta observed, she did. 

Those in the crowd unfamiliar with Clara started skeptical, the ambience in the auditorium reserved. But it shifted quickly within the first verse, Clara’s energy electric as she strutted across the stage, using every inch of it to forcibly capture the audience’s attention. She started early with the kicks, her body an envious combination of strength and flexibility. She held her outstretched leg above her head and flashed the audience her neon pink thong, which elicited a couple of zealous hoots.

This was the first that Argenta had seen her perform from beginning to end, the first that she tried seeing beyond the girl’s many flaws. Clara brought a youthful exuberance to her number, a devil-may-care sort of playfulness. She didn’t care about perfection, her image wasn’t one of grace and refinement like Argenta’s was. She was the girl who danced like nobody was watching, the girl who everybody in the audience wanted to be or wanted to fuck—the girl next door who was within reach, unlike the distant and aloof Argenta Rhodea, who was merely to be admired and desired from afar. There was enthusiasm in the way that Clara popped her skirt up to the waist and showed the Honeybee’s patron her padded ass, which Argenta knew beneath those layers of hose and foam was tight and well muscled. For the duration of the song, Clara danced like she believed she was the hottest girl in the club, and that meant that everybody else believed it too, Argenta included. 

Clara had come a long way in those heels, in just a few months, from slipping in the closet to cartwheeling on stage and landing in the splits to the roar of the crowd. Argenta performed more elegant, practiced physical stunts for some of her numbers with the help of her Honeyboy and Honeygirl backup dancers, but Clara hit the stage herself and held nothing back. 

Clara landed on the flat of her back from her final drop that ended the song, her chest still heaving from exertion. The audience surged to their feet. Clara had slain them all, and Argenta was certain that if she wanted to spend the time, the VIPs in the front row would pay handsomely for Clara’s company. Clara was still flushed when she got up and made her way backstage. Her boobs were staying put this time. 

There was no time for them to exchange words, for Argenta’s performance began right after Clara’s, but they managed to give each other a nod and a smile. 

Argenta closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the applause of the audience began to fade. This was her moment, the one she looked forward to every day that she wasn’t on stage, the moment when all of her troubles, all of her daily burdens fell away. It was only here at the Honeybee that she was at her purest, where she could discard whatever she wanted to of Sephiroth, the Silver General, the man who’d spent his life raised by Shinra, who’d spent years fighting an army of horrifying test tube monsters so that he could one day spend years fighting an army of men in remote Wutai. Here, she was solely Argenta Rhodea. 

She glided on stage while it was still dark in the theatre. The music started with the resonant boom of syncopated percussion, and the lights flared to full brilliance. She had elected to start with what was usually her final number—a song of powerful intensity underscored by an insistent, crescendoing drumbeat, and a singer with a rich, sonorous contralto. 

Argenta was cloaked in flowing fabric of royal blue, a cape which draped down to the middle of her thighs, exposing her legs for the audience. The lyrics began with the echo of drums and the ringing of bells, a metaphor for obsession with another person that Argenta chose to reinterpret as her own evolution, her journey to finding and becoming Argenta Rhodea. The pulsating thrum of the drumbeat signified Sephiroth’s own obsession with her. 

He had not known that drag had existed before seeing Andrea Rhodea perform, he had not known that that path had been possible for him until Andrea had painted Argenta on him for the time. She hadn’t had a name in those early days, she had merely been a woman buried deep inside of him, struggling for air, struggling to be unearthed, a piece of him that completed the puzzle he hadn’t noticed had been missing until the light had been shone on her. He’d hid his obsession at first, even from Genesis and Angeal, even as she engulfed his thoughts, a secret that refused to melt back into the darkness, that refused to stay quiet, that rose in volume and insistence the longer it was denied. Argenta Rhodea had almost consumed him, the vision of her filling his mind, both in his dreams and his waking hours, until Genesis and Angeal finally intervened and snuck him to see Andrea Rhodea, so that he could learn the art of drag—how to paint, how to pad, how to dress, how to dance, how to become Argenta, like he needed to be. 

It had taken Sephiroth a long time to learn to discard his male self, to empty himself of every insidious expectation that Shinra had whispered in his ear, to release everything he’d ever been told he was meant to be, so that he could embrace the power inherent in his femininity and seize the freedom to be man and woman both—unified, whole, and beautiful. It was five years of practice before Argenta Rhodea made her sparkling debut on stage, before the tide in the Wutai War had begun to turn, Sephiroth’s certainty in his own strategy and prowess blossoming alongside Argenta’s rise to fame. 

There was too much of Argenta’s story to fit into a song less than four minutes long, too many personal details that belonged to Sephiroth and Argenta alone, but she was able to convey the power of it nonetheless, the triumph of snatching her identity from those who would deny her. Argenta discarded her cloak for the final chorus, lifting it above her head as she spun on stage, tearing off her wig and revealing another beneath, waist length platinum blonde hair cascading to her waist as she shook her head. She wore a gold leotard, cinched at the waist with a leather corset adorned with metallic accents, evoking the image of a warrior woman, one who had walked through a gauntlet of fire and emerged victorious on the other side. 

The audience whooped and cheered as the singer’s voice held a single, resonant note and then faded. Everybody in the theatre had long gotten to their feet for a standing ovation for her routine, the energy of her performance buoyed by Clara’s, taking them to new, breathless heights. Whistles and hollers punctuated the din, which Argenta had rarely received before Clara had begun opening for her, their awe previously limited to polite expressions of delight. Argenta beamed at her audience, her own blood pounding in her ears, the endorphins in her bloodstream the most addictive high she had ever experienced. 

The lights went dark and she sashayed backstage. Her makeup was too thick to show how flushed she was, vitality returning to her cheeks. She looked around for Clara backstage, but couldn’t find her. Honeygirls and boys trooped past to assemble for the ensemble number that would allow Argenta enough time to change for her next performance. Argenta made her way back up to the dressing room, disappointed that Clara hadn’t been around to return the favor of watching her. She expected to find Clara seated on her side of the mirror, but there was no sign that the girl had returned, her cosmetics and brushes still in disarray on the table. 

Argenta looked around the empty room, and wondered where the hell Clara Skye had gone off to.

* * *

Clara snuck into the audience as soon as Argenta took to the stage. She’d seen this number performed four times already, but was still loath to miss a single second of it. Kunsel saw her and waved her over, just like the first time that she’d set foot in the Honeybee. It felt like a lifetime ago already. Roche was sitting beside him, and they were accompanied by another SOLDIER that Clara didn’t recognize. She slid into the booth, perched on the edge, waving a quick hello to everyone before turning back to the stage. Even from this far back in the theatre, only slightly closer from where they'd sat the first time, Argenta seemed to glow even brighter than the spotlight. Clara watched, riveted, wishing that she could bring this much presence to the stage as naturally as Argenta was able, without the tricks and stunts she had to pull to keep the audience captive. 

Clara leapt to her feet even before Argenta’s reveal, her chest bursting with emotion, churning with the turmoil and joy in Argenta's performance. She had to take a breath before she sat back down and the applause finally died, though her stomach was still fluttering with exhilaration. The house lights rose to half their illumination as the ensemble number began, allowing Clara and the new SOLDIER to introduce themselves. 

“Sierra Qvist,” the new SOLDIER said, and regarded Clara with an appraising eye. “Nice opening." She was a burly woman, with short cropped blonde hair, thick set shoulders, and an ironic smile. 

"Thanks,” Clara said. 

“Are these the best seats you could get us?” Kunsel joked. 

“Hey, they were all I could swing on short notice,” explained Clara. She eyed Roche, who despite wearing his leather jacket and leaning against the soft booth cushions, seemed tightly wound with nervous energy.

“Are you okay?” Clara asked him.

“Yeah,” Roche replied dismissively. He frowned at her, and then changed the subject. “You’re pretty cute in drag.”

“Thank you,” she replied, even though she thought ‘pretty cute’ was an understatement.

“How’d you decide to go from infantryman to drag queen?”

Clara paused, searching for the right response. 

Roche put his hands up. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“You’re the one who encouraged me.”

“Oh.” Roche’s expression fell, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck. I can’t remember.”

“I know,” Clara said kindly and patiently. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you came tonight.”

“I’m not,” Roche muttered. 

Kunsel and Qvist glanced at each other, but didn’t say anything. Clara had the feeling they’d have to leave if Roche started to lose control of himself again. Roche was SOLDIER now, inhumanly strong, however damaged. 

“I’m sorry,” Clara murmured, realizing she probably should have lied to Roche about herself. She remembered what she and Giselle had talked about—what was the point of telling Roche if he didn’t remember, if all it did was remind him of what he had lost? All she was doing was reminding him of all the expectations that were on his shoulders, everyone wanting him to be a man he didn’t know, and hoping for him to eventually turn into someone he no longer was.

Clara shut her mouth, and before the ensuing silence could go on for too long, Kunsel tried to ease them into other topics of conversation, trying to squeeze more stories out of Clara—how she’d gotten hired at the Honeybee in the first place, but she gave only brief, curt responses. She ordered a strong drink when a Honeygirl came by their table, to make the ordeal easier to bear. Clara didn’t know if it was strange for Roche to be this quiet, and in the end they were saved by the lights dimming once more. Everyone turned their attention to the stage, but Clara turned instead toward the entrance of the theatre where she knew Argenta would appear for her second routine. 

She couldn’t help a smile as the familiar strings of the music reached her ears, as Argenta, in an ivory lace dress, shimmered in the spotlight which suddenly illuminated her. 

“Oh, this one’s one of my favorites,” Kunsel whispered. 

Clara silently agreed. Actually every Argenta number was her favorite, but even Argenta’s brilliance could not outshine the sadness that weighed on Clara as she stole a glance at Roche, and saw in his eyes only blankness.

* * *

Argenta went backstage early when she had changed into her outfit for her final performance of the night. 

Miss Kelly blinked in surprise as Argenta strode up to her. 

“Have you seen Clara?” Argenta asked.

“Yes, she’s spending the evening with some of her friends,” Miss Kelly replied calmly. 

“Her friends?”

“Apparently one of the tables had to cancel at the last minute, and Clara asked for the tickets. Andi agreed, but I don’t know the details. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Argenta let out a breath of relief. She’d been imagining the worst—a patron getting handsy with Clara and taking her off into a dark closet to have his way with her. Something like that hadn’t happened at the Honeybee in years, especially after Andrea had brought down the stricter rules, but Argenta didn’t have faith in the establishment’s regular clientele not to push the envelope. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Argenta muttered. 

It wasn’t until after the show that Clara reappeared in the dressing room, when Argenta herself was nearly done tidying her things. The girl was standing in the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks flushed with drink. There were tears streaking her cheeks. 

“Clara!” Argenta exclaimed, alarmed. She rushed to the girl’s side, took her inside and shut the door quickly. She steered Clara toward the divan. “What happened?” _And who do I have to kill?_

“He doesn’t remember,” Clara said miserably as she plopped herself down. She reeked of alcohol, and Argenta wondered how much she’d drunk. “He doesn’t remember me at all.” She burst into a fresh round of tears, and Argenta had to go to the dressing table and pull out a packet of tissues from her purse.

“Who doesn’t remember you?” Argenta asked gently, handing Clara a tissue.

“Ro—um, one of my friends,” Clara mumbled. She accepted Argenta’s offering and blew her nose loudly. 

“What happened?” 

Clara sniffled, and Argenta handed her another tissue. “He was in an accident and lost his memory.”

“Oh.” So it wasn’t a molestation situation. Argenta relaxed slightly. She wouldn’t have to strangle a man in the back alley, then.

“We used to be friends, but…” Clara trailed off, blinking through her tears. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Clara dabbed at her eyes with a damp tissue, smudging her eyeliner and mascara. She regarded Argenta, and Argenta caught a flicker of hesitation in Clara’s gaze. They never talked about private matters, about anything that might reveal their mutual identities to each other. Clara nodded, and Argenta took a seat beside her on the divan.

“I don’t know what to say,” Clara confessed, with a sniff. She looked away from Argenta. She seemed to be guarding something too, though whether she was reluctant to open up or merely protecting herself from further hurt, Argenta was unable to tell. “It’s like he’s dead, but he’s not. And I can’t even tell him what he used to be like, what we used to do together, because it’s unfair to put all these expectations on him.”

“Aren’t you glad your friend is still alive?” Argenta asked softly. She blinked slowly, lowering her head in remembrance of her friends, who weren’t. She was certain that a loss of memory, for them, would be a blessing considering what she knew now of their origins. “It means you have the opportunity to start over.”

“I’m not sure he wants to,” Clara said bitterly. 

“Maybe he will in the future if you give him some time.”

Clara tossed a couple of soggy tissues she had held balled up in her fist on the floor in protest. Argenta glanced at them, and decided not to chide Clara for the time being. 

“Or sometimes you just have to let go.” Argenta’s heart twinged again. “And trust that the hurt will fade.”

Clara heaved a sigh. It shuddered less than the breaths she’d taken before. Argenta regretted that she couldn’t ask Clara for more details, but she knew that it was better this way for the both of them. 

They sat together while Clara’s tears slowly dried, the wadded tissues on the floor piling up as Clara kept missing the trash can. When it became clear that Clara was missing playfully, on purpose, Argenta heaved a sigh, and decided that it was time to clean up, starting with Clara’s face. 

“Your makeup’s a mess,” Argenta said, as if that was her chief concern.

She rose and fetched Clara’s makeup remover, and even held the girl’s lashes gingerly in her fingers while Clara wiped her face. Argenta laid Clara’s lashes back on her dresser. She’d never bothered to study the looks of the young man that Clara was, but now that she was getting a good look at him, she envied his delicate features, attractive even with his eyes pink and puffy from crying. He was pretty in that way that could entice both girls and boys alike, still shaking off the last vestiges of youthful innocence while he grew into manhood. Argenta tried not to be too obvious about staring as Clara shrugged out of her drag, revealing well-muscled shoulders and a toned, flat stomach. 

Argenta forced herself to turn away from Clara undressing, and fussed with packing up the rest of her things instead, and even started sorting Clara’s things to make it easier for her to clean up. 

“Thanks,” Clara said, when she had put all her things away in the suitcase and picked up all her tissues. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“Nonsense,” Argenta said. She put all her makeup away in her closet, and wrapped her coat tightly around her. It was almost time for her coachman to come and pick her up. “Queens take care of one another. I'm glad nobody did anything to you, so I don’t have to strangle a bitch and throw a body in the dumpster.”

A wan smile broke out on Clara’s face. “You’d do that for me?”

Argenta was about to fire off a witty repartee about men with poor taste getting what they deserved, but she didn’t. “I would do that for anyone,” she said instead. 

Clara's smile widened. "I know," she said softly. 

Argenta looked at Clara quizzically, but Clara turned away quickly. Together they made their way into the lobby, ignoring the sounds of pleasure that emanated from behind the closed doors that lined the Honeybee's corridors. Argenta's chocobo carriage was just pulling into the square. 

"See you in three weeks?" Clara asked. 

Argenta nodded. "See you then," she replied. It would be their final performance of the year, before a few weeks' break for the winter solstice. It would not be a long time away from the Honeybee Inn, but she'd grown accustomed to Clara's company. She wondered where Clara was from, whether she had family in Midgar, or if she had come from somewhere else. Maybe Argenta would find out someday.

Clara waved, and Argenta returned it. The girl turned and walked away, the wheels to her  
small suitcase bouncing and clattering against the cobblestones. For a moment, Argenta almost invited her into the carriage, seized by the sudden desire to spend more time with Clara, even if a few more minutes. But she hesitated for too long, and by the time she made up her mind to give Clara a ride, Clara had already gone out of earshot. 

Placing a momentary pang of regret aside, Argenta turned, and climbed into her carriage.


	24. Guns for Solstice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being a few days late with this chapter. The reason I wanted to wait was partly seasonal, but mostly because my beta-reader, the amazing [GhostOfTasslehoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff) has written an entire fic that is a missing scene for this chapter. Please go and read ["All I Want for Solstice"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284762). It is beautifully written and exquisitely characterized, and fits right into this chapter because it contains a little bit of development for Clara and Argenta's relationship. I promise that you won't regret it!

The lead up to Winter Solstice was an especially busy time of year at Leaf House, between the icicle and snow-themed decorations going up around the walls, and the frantic planning of the annual Leaf House Winter Festival. The festival was a party for the entirety of the Sector 5 slums that doubled as a fundraiser for the orphanage—every gil of profit from the mulled wine, roasted nuts, and grilled sausages provided most of Leaf House’s operating budget for the year to come. Aerith had been spending a few hours every day the past few weeks helping out, and had even dragged Zack into the preparations, declaring that if he wanted to spend time with her, then he was also going to be spending time at Leaf House.

Zack was placed on carpentry duty, alongside a scruffy looking teacher named Biggs. They were supposed to build the wooden stalls for the food and drinks vending, as well as the stage and sets for the kids play, a rendition of the folktale of the Goddess Shiva and the Endless Winter. They managed to recruit some of the older children into helping out, but they grew bored quickly and were prone to wandering off. 

To keep them entertained, Zack requisitioned a few spare planks and fashioned them wooden swords in the shape of the Buster that they could sling on their backs or pretend to spar with. He even taught them some basic movements, after giving them a lecture about dreams and honor, and extracting oaths that they’d never use them to hurt each other or harangue innocent people walking the streets. He and Biggs also taught them how to patrol, which was basically walking a set perimeter around the sector and performing good deeds if they saw a citizen in need—carrying messages, helping the elderly, picking up litter.

Halfway through set construction, Zack and Biggs ran out wood of the size they needed. They had a hurried discussion about what they ought to do—if they ought to substitute one of the backgrounds for another—when a girl named Bina piped up that she had seen some disused wood in a remote corner of the Sector 5 scrapyard. 

Bina was the ringleader of the orphanage’s most infamous group of troublemakers, a gang of four headstrong, clever kids about twelve to thirteen years of age who knew just how far to push their teachers before going back to their best behavior. They were either the nicest kids or the most notorious handful, and Zack was thankful he’d seen more of them on the nice end of the spectrum. Biggs chided them gently for going into forbidden territory, but Bina and her three friends apologized sweetly, and Biggs forgave them provided they promised not to go there ever again unsupervised. They assured him earnestly they wouldn’t. Zack had the feeling that promise wouldn’t last five minutes, if the opportunity provided itself.

He and Biggs decided it was worth a trip to check out what was there. Zack agreed to go see if anything was usable, while Biggs would stay behind and work on the rigging for the lights. 

“I’ll go with you!” Bina volunteered immediately, once plans were made. The rest of her friends also volunteered, loudly. Biggs and Zack managed to placate the rest of the group, promising they’d get one-on-one patrol time with Zack the SOLDIER later, but Bina asserted herself, saying she wanted to go with Zack now, and she glared at the rest of her gang until they all shut up and let her have first dibs. 

They struck off together, sauntering through the city in the early twilight of winter. Bina kept her wits about her, her keen gaze darting from side to side as they left the busy center of the slums and into the less traveled paths, scanning for danger, for things lying in ambush in the shadows. She didn’t even flinch when a wererat scuttled from behind a half-rotten crate and charged at them, defending its territory with an ear-splitting shriek. Bina simply unslung her wooden sword and gave the animal a good thwack with the edge when it came within range. It retreated as quickly as it had come, its thick, hairless tail disappearing beneath a pile of rubble. 

“Wow, you really showed that wererat who’s boss,” said Zack, mildly impressed with the fierce little girl who shrugged her sword back on. 

“I’m thirteen. I’m not afraid of a rat,” Bina replied, with a serious expression. 

“You ought to be. What if you meet a horde of ‘em?”

“Then I’ll fight a horde of ‘em,” said Bina, matter-of-factly. “We’ve been practicing the sword forms you taught us in the playground.”

“They’re basic forms.”

Bina grinned. “Not with the way we’ve been practicing.” 

Zack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh no, what had he done? 

“Are we going to keep going or what?” Bina asked, arms akimbo like she was the one in charge of this mission. 

They went deeper into the scrapyard, Bina leading him off a branching path that twisted around some old mining machinery until she pointed off to a fenced off area and a crooked ‘DANGER: no entry’ sign.

“Are you sure this area’s not being used?” asked Zack dubiously. The fence looked a little dilapidated by his standards, but then so did most of the undercity. “We’re gonna get in big trouble if it turns out we’re stealing people’s stuff.”

“We’re not stealing,” Bina insisted. “This is all abandoned.”

Zack wasn’t just going to take a thirteen year-old’s word for it, but Biggs certainly hadn’t put up a protest when Bina had described the location. If Biggs was fine with taking what they needed from here, then Zack supposed it was all right. 

There was a small rip in the fence that Bina could fit through if she crawled, but Zack had to widen it, cleaving clean through more of the chain links before he could spread an opening wide enough for him to make it through without scratching his skin or getting his uniform caught. 

“Huh, that’s funny.” Bina’s voice came from up ahead. “These weren’t here before.”

“What wasn’t there before?” Zack asked. In a small clearing, there were ten metal crates nestled amongst discarded, weathered wood splinters, the remnants of some barn that had been demolished and haphazardly swept aside some years ago. 

“The metal boxes,” Bina said. In the fading light, the ten chests looked almost like rectangular coffins, about as long as a person was tall. 

Bina drew her sword and looked around, cautiously. Zack almost followed suit, except he didn’t want to admit to being creeped out by ghosts, so he took out his flashlight instead and approached one of the boxes. Upon second inspection, it looked less like a coffin, and more like the crates they used for equipment transport in the military, except there was no discernible insignia stamped onto it. 

“Should we take a look inside?” Bina asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Zack said. 

He had a feeling of unease about the appearance of these in a purportedly abandoned area of the undercity scrapyards. He lodged the edge of the Buster beneath the lid of the nearest box and cracked it open. Bina stood beside him, her sword out, her eyes alert for danger, but there was no sound save for the metallic groan of the crate’s hinges as Zack slid the lid upward. He was greeted by a pile of standard-issue PSD rifles, Shinra logos emblazoned on the sides. 

“Whoa!” Bina gasped, peering over Zack’s shoulder. “Are those guns?”

Zack nodded. He reached inside and picked one up. It was a Shinra S-16 carbine, and there were enough of them in here to equip an entire squadron. There were no official weapons caches stored in the undercity, which meant these weren’t supposed to be here. 

“Looks like someone wants a whole bunch of Shinra guns for solstice,” Zack remarked with concern. He didn’t want to imagine what sort of violence would break out in the slums with these circulating in the black market, and there were nine more boxes to go around.

He should take Bina back to Leaf House and deal with these himself, but he was reluctant to leave an entire battalion’s worth of weaponry alone, should they disappear in his absence. Zack examined the gun carefully, noting the serial number. 

“You wanna take a look at the rest?” Zack asked.

Bina nodded eagerly. 

They opened the rest together, finding three more chests of rifles and carbines, and three each of flashbags and grenades, all Shinra-manufactured. Zack asked Bina to read off a few serial numbers from each crate, which he typed into his phone. 

“What are you doing?” Bina asked, just as Zack finished firing off his request for emergency support to Major Varma. 

“Calling for backup,” Zack replied. “These belong to Shinra. We can’t let bad guys get a hold of these, can we?”

Bina shook her head. “They could do a lot of damage.”

“That’s right.”

“Who’s coming?” Bina asked curiously. 

“Whaddya mean?”

“Who’s backup? Is it Sephiroth?” Bina had a hopeful smile on her face. 

Oh, so she was one of those, Zack thought, with a sideways grin. “Probably the PSD, actually,” he replied. Bina wrinkled her nose. Nobody in the undercity liked the faceless PSD, but Sephiroth seemed to buck the general distaste for Shinra down here. “General Sephiroth doesn’t do field missions.”

“But he fought in the war,” Bina pointed out. “That’s a field mission.”

“That’s different. He led entire campaigns. Weeks worth of planning, strategy, and fighting. This is...just transporting ten heavy boxes of stolen goods.”

“Sephiroth doesn’t do those?”

Zack shook his head. “He’s our highest ranking SOLDIER. He’s not ‘backup.’” 

“Oh,” said Bina, disappointed. “Who’re they gonna send out in charge, then?”

“Um, me? I’m in charge.”

Bina cocked her head to the side curiously. 

“I’m a SOLDIER First Class!” Zack exclaimed. “That’s the same as Sephiroth!”

“You’re a General?” Bina frowned. “Then why do you hang out with a bunch of kids all the time?”

“I just got promoted to Captain,” Zack grumbled. Oh boy, he was gonna have to explain that SOLDIERs had their SOLDIER classification based on their abilities, but they also had separate military ranks based on their experience. Second Class SOLDIERs were all usually at least lieutenants, and First Class SOLDIERs were all at least Captains, though Seconds who had distinguished themselves in combat or through military operations could be promoted to Captain, like Samara Njeri. Firsts could keep climbing the ladder until they reached the rank of General, like Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis. But Bina folded her arms as if she’d caught Zack out.

“So you’re not like Sephiroth at all!” she declared, as if she’d known all along.

“Not in the least,” Zack muttered. He didn’t go around making wisecracks about his subordinates to their faces. “But I know him,” Zack offered. “He’s a friend.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then when was the last time you saw him?”

Now that Bina mentioned it, it occurred to Zack that he hadn’t seen Sephiroth around all month. He used to stay at HQ until late in the evenings, but nowadays he was nowhere to be found after regular work hours, his office dark and abandoned. He hadn’t even been in any of the training rooms, which meant that he was gone. Zack wondered where he was getting off to. Was he actually going home instead of sticking around? Zack didn’t think Sephiroth knew what ‘work-life balance’ even meant.

“Uh...about four weeks?” replied Zack, after a moment’s thought.

Bina scoffed. “Then he’s not really your friend. I see my friends every day.”

Zack was about to insist to a teenaged girl that he was in fact friends with Sephiroth, it was just that Sephiroth was busy with...something, when he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. Bina saw the look on his face, whirled around, and let out a startled gasp. She took a step closer to him,and brandished her sword. It quivered in her grasp. 

Zack recognized the guy with the manbun and leather jacket from when Cole had led him into an ambush, but Manbun wasn’t at the head of the group this time. The guy walking out in front had a bleached blond mohawk, sunglasses—even at this time of night—and a striking orange vest, which he wore open with no shirt underneath. He approached Zack with a swagger, unfazed by the size of the Buster Sword on his back. He barely spared a glance for young Bina at Zack’s side. 

“You the one been giving us trouble lately?” the man asked.

“Depends on the type of trouble,” said Zack, grinning with impudence. He nodded toward Manbun. “If you mean beating up that bastard over there, sure.”

“That’s him, Kotch, sir,” Manbun murmured. “They say he’s SOLDIER.”

“SOLDIER, huh?” Kotch turned back to Zack, scrutinizing him closely. 

Zack spread his hands wide as if he couldn’t help that his reputation preceded him. 

“You got a death wish or somethin’?”

“Nah, I figure I got a lot of years left in me.” Zack tugged Bina closer to him. She scowled fiercely at Kotch and the rest of his crew materializing out of the shadows behind him. She was trembling, but determined not to let it show. “Gotta ask you guys the same thing, though. Shinra don’t take kindly to our stuff being stolen.”

“Who says they’re stolen?”

Zack cocked his head up. He could hear a helicopter faintly over the background buzz of the undercity. “That helicopter,” he said. “I sent some serial numbers when I reported the cache. Now, if those hadn’t been logged as missing, there’d be no need to send in a chopper, would there?”

Kotch glared, or at least that’s how Zack interpreted the way the man stuck his neck out, since he couldn’t really tell from behind those sunglasses. Half of Kotch’s underlings were staring into the air in puzzlement, their ordinary hearing unable to pick up the distant approach of the helicopter above the sounds of the undercity. Zack wasn't even sure that was indeed the backup he was waiting for, but Kotch and his gang didn’t have to know that.

“You sure you wanna mess with the Don?” Kotch asked.

“There are plenty of nice folks down here I don’t mess with. Usually people who are just trying to get by on an honest living.”

Kotch chuckled. “An honest living. Just like you working for Shinra on the plate, huh? You got some guts comin’ down here into the slums to preach to us.”

“We done talkin’ so we can beat him up yet?” said a voice from Kotch’s group. 

“Shut up!” Kotch snarled. He regarded Zack and Bina, but now the helicopter was loud enough that everyone could hear it growing nearer. “You’ve made an enemy of Don Corneo, SOLDIER. You better watch your back down here.”

“And you tell the Don not to mess with Sector 5,” Zack warned back. “It’s gonna take more than a motley gang to take me down.” Zack smiled coldly. “I’m game whenever you are.” 

Kotch grinned back, as if Zack’s bravado was funny to him. He signalled for his men to retreat, and several shot Zack glares on their way out, making lewd and threatening gestures as they walked away. 

Bina stuck her tongue out at them, and Zack rested a hand on her shoulder to make sure she didn’t run after them to try and kick their asses while they had their backs turned. 

“We sure scared them off,” she said, once the Don’s men were out of earshot.

“Of course we did,” Zack agreed. 

The helicopter landed a ways off, near Aerith’s church, one of the few places in the sector where there was enough room for it to alight. A few minutes later, Cissnei and a small troop of PSD infantrymen arrived. 

The red-headed Turk folded her arms. “What have you gotten yourself into now?” 

“More like what amazing treasure trove have I found,” Zack gestured at all the chests he’d pried open. “Don’t tell me you’re the one they put on the case.”

“Hardly, this is the stuff they give to the PSD detectives,” Cissnei replied. “I came down here because the message came from you.”

Zack grinned. “Sorry, but I’m already taken.”

Cissnei rolled her eyes. “They sent me down here because they expected a mess that needed to be cleaned up.” She surveyed their surroundings suspiciously. “So where’s the mess?”

“Oh, ye of little faith. It’s just the weapons that Bina and I stumbled upon.” Zack patted the Bina on the shoulder, who eyed Cissnei with quiet wonder. Cissnei couldn’t be that much older than Bina was. 

“Hi, I’m Cissnei.” The Turk extended her hand. Hesitantly, Bina took it.

“I’m Bina.” 

“Nice to meet you, Bina.” They shook, an exchange in mimicry of a real adult introduction. 

Cissnei gestured for the infantry troops to come and load the crates of contraband back onto the helicopter. Zack watched in amazement as Bina peppered Cissnei with questions—what did she do, how did she know Zack, could she fight, where did she learn—showing Cissnei, a complete stranger, more admiration than Zack had ever gotten. Must be a girl thing, Zack figured, because he could not imagine that Bina would objectively find a Turk cooler than a First Class SOLDIER. 

Cissnei turned back to him when the boxes were all aboard the craft. There was no more room in the helicopter for her personnel, so they’d all have to make it back via public transport. 

“Are you coming with us?” Cissnei asked.

“Actually,” Zack grinned, “I think you guys should come with me.”

Cissnei looked at him quizzically. 

Zack leaned over to conspire with Bina in quiet whispers. “You wanna make them carry some wooden planks back to Leaf House for us? It’ll save us two trips. Whaddya say?”

Bina smiled. “Good idea.”

“I’ve got a new assignment for you,” Zack declared, turning back to Cissnei and the six PSD troopers that accompanied her. He winked at Bina. “But don’t worry, it’s for a good cause.”

Biggs, Bina’s friends, and Aerith were all speechless as Zack, Bina, Cissnei and the PSD returned to Leaf House, bearing enough spare materials to finish constructing the stage, sets, and stands twice over for the Winter Festival.

* * *

Sephiroth sat in Vivian Varma’s office for their weekly debrief. It was actually Lazard’s old office, but it was a testament to how well the Major was filling it since he was beginning to think of it as hers. Varma was going over the mission reports that had been filed by the field operatives, but Sephiroth found himself preoccupied, mainly with the Honeybee Inn and Clara Skye. They’d already finished their final performance of the year, but Clara’s daring striptease from her opening number had burnt itself into Sephiroth’s mind, alongside the memories of the flirtatious way that Clara had teased him after the show. If Sephiroth hadn’t known any better, he might have concluded that Clara was interested in him—or Argenta, rather, but Clara had had one too many drinks after the show. He’d just barely managed to keep things professional between them, he wasn’t about to take advantage of Clara while she was inebriated. Thankfully, they weren’t scheduled to return until the new year, so Sephiroth had a few days to try to forget Clara’s impudent smirk when she called Argenta sexy, and her warmth when she had pressed her body up against his. Even when he was trying to put Clara firmly out of his mind, he knew that he was going to miss the rapport that had formed between them. 

This would be the second winter solstice that Sephiroth was going to spend without Genesis and Angeal. He had passed the previous one with Andi and his husband, Augustine, intruding on their hospitality in the name of the House of Rhodea. They’d extended an invitation to him again this year, though he had yet to accept, even though he had nowhere else to go. Briefly, he wondered what Clara’s plans were, and wished that she had shared them.

“General?”

Sephiroth refocused on the room, on Major Varma staring at him with a carefully curated expression of neutrality. She was too polite to express her curiosity or chide him for his wandering attention. 

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that last sentence?” Sephiroth asked. 

“Of course. I was saying that Zack Fair should be commended for his pivotal role in retrieving a stash of weapons that were reported stolen last month. It does seem that assigning him to the undercity has its unforeseen benefits,” Varma said. “I will ask him to continue investigating how the weapons made it into the hands of the smugglers, as the Turks surmise there may be a man on the inside.” Varma waited for Sephiroth to register any questions. 

“Isn’t this a job usually left for PSD detectives?”

“They aren’t very popular in the slums,” Varma explained, “while Fair appears to have built himself a reputation amongst the locals.”

Sephiroth nodded, indicating his assent with Varma’s plan. He didn’t mind Zack spending part of his time below the plate, only being sent afield for the odd, short mission. Zack had bounced back admirably from the fallout of the Modeoheim mission, and was already starting to fill the void in SOLDIER left by Angeal’s death. He was always cheerful after a trip to the undercity, in no small part because of the girl he was dating down there. If it made him happy, and it kept the peace between Shinra and the undercity residents, Sephiroth didn’t see any downsides. 

“Moving on, then,” Varma said, continuing down her agenda. “Heidegger and I have discussed a proposal for filling the gap in resources in SOLDIERs by assigning special members of the 3rd Infantry Regiment as support on a permanent basis until a time as SOLDIER can be rebuilt to its former numbers. I’m interested in your thoughts on this, General.”

If Varma had discussed with Heidegger already, Sephiroth wondered what the point was in asking for his opinion, save for the cursory respect it showed in running their decision by him before SOLDIER was overrun by the PSD. He ought to put up a small protest, and not make it too easy for Varma or Heidegger. 

“SOLDIER missions are considered highly risky. The reason we have elite operatives is because SOLDIERs can do what ordinary men cannot,” Sephiroth said, diplomatically. “It is difficult to see the value in assigning ordinary infantry to SOLDIER when it will only increase liability.”

“I understand your perspective,” Varma replied crisply, “but is it not routine for the PSD to already serve as logistics support and extra firepower on larger missions? There are several recent examples where having a few well-trained members has meant the success of the mission. While the risks are legitimate, I believe that on balance, the benefits will outweigh the liabilities.”

Silently, Sephiroth conceded the point that the PSD came in useful in certain circumstances. He had fought beside them in Wutai after all, and used their numbers to his advantage. “I also fear that the lack of appropriate PSD training means they will be a risk when working together with a SOLDIER operative,” Sephiroth argued. “A SOLDIER will quietly get bogged down having to heal and protect PSD support, if they are unable to protect themselves adequately. This may compromise certain types of missions.”

Varma nodded again. “Our proposal is to pick individuals who have already served with SOLDIER, or have otherwise demonstrated exemplary bravery and potential in their records. We also plan on supplementing their training, particularly in the use of materia, both offensive and defensive, so they can better support our elite operatives.”

“When do you propose to implement this?”

“We can have the new unit formed and reassigned within the first month of the new year,” Varma said. “I have been reviewing promising candidates, and have already identified half of the personnel we would need.”

Sephiroth wondered if Vivian Varma ever slept, if she had any hobbies or family she returned to after work, or if she lived and breathed her job. He supposed he didn’t need to ask, how well Varma had managed to grasp her new role as his ‘aide’ within a short amount of time despite being completely new to SOLDIER was a testament to how little life she had outside of these four walls.

“How large would this new unit be?”

“Fifty strong.” 

So this was how Heidegger was going to solidify his hold—make the PSD an indispensable part of SOLDIER’s everyday operations, build a rapport, and then make two inextricable from each other. It reminded Sephrioth of the way that Clara Skye had managed to make herself a necessary addition to Argenta Rhodea’s show, though in Clara’s case it was much less sinister and more welcome than what was transpiring here. He had little appetite to fight further with Varma or Heidegger pulling the strings from the shadows. If acquiescing to Heidegger’s wishes meant more time for him to spend in Wall Market in the coming year, then Sephiroth was willing to sacrifice some of SOLDIER’s autonomy.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Sephiroth said. “And then we can reevaluate after a year if needed.”

Varma inclined her head. “I appreciate your agreement, sir.”

Sephiroth regarded her coolly. Of course she did.

* * *

Cloud spent winter solstice in the company of the poor sods in the barracks who didn’t have the money or the inclination to go home for the winter holidays, most of them from remote areas of the continent. Giselle and Tomas were Midgar natives, and so had gone home, which left Aleksandr as the only one of the bunch who Cloud knew well. Cloud stuck close to his former bunkmate all throughout the drinking and the singing, until he got sick of Aleksandr’s drunken complaining about the lack of snow in Midgar, and how it didn’t feel like a proper Winter Solstice. 

Cloud snuck back into his room and piled onto his bed, because his vision was swimming and it swam less when he was lying down. He put some music on, fantasizing about the stage at the Honeybee’s theatre and sharing it with Argenta Rhodea in exquisitely choreographed, symmetrical harmony. He dreamed about dancing side by side with her, Argenta decked out in various colors—white satin, red lace, black brocade—as the songs cycled through his playlist. He dreamed about standing back to back as they seduced the audience together, he dreamed about Argenta’s hands on his waist, Argenta’s fingers stroking his sides for the titillation of their guests as well as his own. He dreamed about asking her to spend winter solstice with him, about being brave enough not to care if she said ‘no.’ Eventually, Cloud drifted off.

He woke with his alarm blaring in his ears. He was still wearing his clothes, having slept atop his blankets. The hangover made his head throb as he silenced his alarm and rolled to his feet, blearily pulling on his uniform. He hadn’t requested leave for solstice, there hadn’t been a point since he didn’t have the funds to make it home to Nibelheim and the next Diamonds and Destiny show wasn’t until the middle of the next month, in the new year. 

Cloud was glad his PSD helmet hid his bloodshot eyes as he reported for duty. Before they headed out for their assignments, Sergeant Tyson pulled both Aleksandr and him into her office, and handed them their new orders. The papers shook in his hands as he squinted at the text. It took him longer than usual to read, because his head was pounding, his vision was blurry, and he did not understand what Regiment X was and why the word ‘soldier’ was being written in capital letters.

“Holy shit,” Aleksandr breathed, when Cloud had only made it halfway through the text. “We’re being permanently assigned to support SOLDIER.”

SOLDIER.

Cloud drew a hissing breath. A few months ago, he would have whooped with joy and tackled Aleksandr to the floor in jubilation at being offered the chance to serve with SOLDIER. But now, Cloud felt only dread, an anxious lump forming in his innards, black and heavy. He wanted to puke. 

SOLDIER was where Sephiroth was. And he hadn’t told Argenta anything yet. 

_Oh, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, if you haven't yet clicked on it, to go and read [GhostOfTasslehoff's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff) ["All I Want for Solstice"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284762). It details Clara's winter solstice-themed lip sync, and contains some lovely character interactions with Argenta, as well as Cloud and his friends in the PSD. It contains some excellent characterization and furthers the development of Clara and Argenta's relationship, so please go read it!
> 
> Also, I have a blanket permission statement, which means that if you want to play with Clara Skye and Argenta Rhodea too, you don't need permission from me in advance. Go forth and create!


	25. In Plain Sight

Cloud focused on not throwing up as the personnel transport pulled into the shadows of Shinra Company Headquarters. The last time Cloud had been here was the last time he’d seen Roche, about to start his SOLDIER training. Now he was a part of the hand-selected, newly-formed Regiment X on permanent assignment. He didn’t know where he stood with Roche, and he had also blown his opportunity to confess what he knew to Argenta at the first Diamonds and Destiny show last Friday. 

Every single time he’d opened his mouth to say her name, and she’d turned toward him, the rest of his words had evaporated, no matter how well rehearsed they’d been in his head. His courage had failed him every time he’d imagined Argenta’s warm gaze turning icy with betrayal and hurt. If Clara had known all along, why hadn’t she said anything? The hypothetical scenario always ended in Argenta repudiating Clara, kicking her out for good, refusing to perform alongside her. So, Cloud hadn’t said a thing to Argenta then, and now he risked Sephiroth recognizing him as Clara, in front of all his men. The thought made Cloud sick with guilt. The only avenues left open to him were to contrive a way to bump into Sephiroth somehow and reveal himself, or to hide beneath the anonymity of the PSD helmet forever. Cloud looked around, recognizing Aleksandr only by virtue of the shape of the man’s shoulders, even though they’d served together since training camp. 

The prospect of losing everything he had with Argenta made bile rise in the back of his throat, and Cloud almost gagged, so he settled on the plan which made him feel less ill.

“Hey Cloud, you okay?” Aleksandr asked. 

Cloud nodded. “I don’t think breakfast agreed with me,” he said weakly.

“Uh oh, I ate the same thing you did.”

“Maybe I’m just having a bad reaction.”

“Hell of a day for food poisoning.”

“Yeah,” Cloud managed. He stayed silent the rest of the ride, his stomach gurgling loudly. 

He hung toward the very back of the assembly as they lined up in an enclosed courtyard in the rear of HQ. They were met by their new commander, Staff Sergeant Saga Tjell, a stern-faced middle-aged woman with her graying hair tucked in a functional ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her voice was calm and even as she delivered a few words of welcome that Cloud hardly registered through his growing trepidation. His heart rate spiked when she finished and called them to attention, announcing the arrival of SOLDIERs First Class. 

Cloud’s spine stiffened as the sound of multiple pairs of boots on concrete pierced his awareness. He kept his chin up, his eyes staring straight ahead, not daring even to tremble as Sephiroth and Zack Fair arrived, flanked by two other Firsts whose names took Cloud a moment to dredge up from memory—Wolfgang Okope and Lee-Rong Gongsun. Sephiroth’s cool gaze swept over the fifty men and women of Regiment X. His brows furrowed slightly as he studied them as a group, his slitted pupils narrowing in focus. Cloud held his breath, as Sephiroth stared right at him, and then slid smoothly past. There had not been a pause, nor a flicker of recognition. Sephiroth finished surveying them in seconds, and exhibited no further interest. 

Sephiroth gave them only a short speech, the voice both familiar and not—Argenta’s voice, though pitched a little deeper, inflected with a harder edge, rather than her softness and warmth. Cloud had listened to it many times on the news growing up, but to hear it faintly echoing off the surrounding concrete and glass in person was an altogether different experience, different even to when Clara and Argenta conversed in their dressing room. It allayed his frayed nerves, and when he closed his eyes and listened, he didn’t feel quite as if he needed to throw up on the spot.

Cloud’s sigh of relief must have been audible after Sephiroth departed, and it was left to Zack and the other Firsts to introduce themselves properly and impress upon them the gravity of their duties. Zack looked at them differently than Sephiroth had, with kinder eyes, with interest. With Zack, there was recognition, since they’d done Modeoheim together, but that also meant that if there was no hiding from Zack, there was no hiding from Roche or Kunsel either. As long as he had as little contact as possible with Sephiroth, and he kept his helmet on inside HQ, it would buy him enough time to figure out how to tell Argenta Rhodea something important.

* * *

Zack had to wait until the new regiment was off duty from their first day before he went up to the 53rd floor, where they were stationed. He’d been tempted to drag Cloud to coffee right in the middle of his shift, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate, or kind, to single him out in front of everybody else. He had the feeling that the guy got enough flack already for being short and a little shy. 

“Heads up, a First!” one of the privates called, when Zack wandered into their training area. 

Zack waved at them casually to relax, but only half of them dropped their salutes. Oh brother, he hoped Sephiroth didn’t expect him to beat the PSD out of the actual PSD. Now there was a task as impossible as it was futile. He found Cloud in the armory, cleaning his rifle, his helmet still on. Almost everyone in the PSD preferred to take them off when off duty— they were bulky and heavy with all the optical enhancements and communications devices built into them, but maybe Cloud was using it to pinpoint the excess dirt and grease he needed to get rid of.

“Hey,” Zack greeted him cheerfully. 

Cloud startled and then tensed, pausing in the middle of his work and leaning slightly to the side, as if trying to look for something behind Zack. 

Zack turned, but there was nobody behind him. “It’s just me,” he chuckled, wondering what had Cloud so on edge. Maybe Staff Sergeant Tjell had given them a good dressing down. Zack didn’t know her all that well, but she did have a reputation for tight discipline. 

“Oh, hi,” Cloud said, relaxing visibly once he was assured that whatever or whoever he was wary of wasn’t there. 

“You feelin’ okay?”

“Uh, I’ve got a bad migraine right now.”

Zack winced in sympathy. “Oh, ouch. Sorry.” He didn’t get migraines often anymore, not since becoming SOLDIER. The worst he got nowadays was headaches, and those mostly came as part of hangovers. “Shouldn’t you take your helmet off then?”

Cloud shook his head. “Light sensitivity,” he said, pointing upward at the harsh glare of the lights in the armory. “The helmet’s optics help with that.”

“Oh.” Zack nodded, that made sense.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Zack snorted. “We’re both off duty, so you don’t need to ‘sir’ me.”

“Sorry. Habit,” Cloud said sheepishly. 

“I get it,” Zack said, shooting his friend a sardonic grin. “Anyway, you wanna hang out? We should catch up, it’s been a while.”

“Where?”

Zack shrugged. “SOLDIER mess? Relaxation floor? Probably better than the chow they have in your canteen.”

Cloud considered the offer, but hesitated for longer than Zack thought necessary. 

“Or we can go some other time,” Zack suggested. He got the feeling there was definitely something making Cloud uncomfortable, but he brushed it off as ‘first day on the new job’ nervousness. 

“No!” Cloud said quickly. “It’s just...kind of awkward right now.”

“‘Cause of the migraine?”

“It’s Roche, actually.”

“Ah, right.” Zack remembered how quickly they’d had to leave the PSD barracks because of Roche’s agitation. He figured that Cloud would have gotten in touch again with his old friend since, but maybe not. “You wanna go out-out, then? Hit the town?”

Cloud nodded. 

Zack scratched the back of his head. “You mind if we hit up some place cheap?”

“Oh, please, I’m poor as hell.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Really? Don’t they pay better in SOLDIER?”

“Ha, you’d think,” Zack snorted. He waited around for Cloud to finish and put his rifle back on the rack with the others. 

Cloud cut a funny visual as he changed back into his civilian clothes but kept his helmet on, even when they wound their way toward the building’s exit. He didn’t take it off until they’d walked all the way to the Sector 0 train station, and Cloud had to lug it around the rest of the night when they stopped by Zack’s favorite pizza parlor in Sector 1. Zack would have thought it weird, but then again, migraines were even stranger, so he decided to cut the guy some slack.

* * *

Clara took a deep breath as she stared at the dressing room door, wondering if she wished hard enough she could develop x-ray vision and could therefore tell whether Argenta, sitting inside, was angry or not. Of course she wasn’t, Clara had to tell herself. Argenta didn’t know yet that Clara knew. Otherwise, Cloud would surely have gotten a summons sometime in the past two weeks to Sephiroth’s office. The fact that Cloud had hardly seen Sephiroth around HQ at all, much less had any contact, meant that things could still go on the way they had been. Right? Right.

It took another couple of seconds for Clara to work up the courage to open the door and pretend everything was normal. Argenta, already sitting front of the mirror, looked up. 

“Hi,” Clara said, cheerily.

“Hello,” Argenta said evenly, watching Clara as she rolled her suitcase over to her side of the room, like she always did. 

“What?” Clara asked, suddenly conscious of Argenta’s eyes on her. 

“You seem cheerful tonight,” Argenta observed. 

Clara pasted a happy smile on her face. “Had a rough week, happy to be here.” 

Argenta made a noise of commiseration, a haven’t-we-all grunt, and turned back to her reflection. “Maybe you should tell your clients to use more lubrication.”

Clara’s mouth dropped open in indignation before she snapped it closed again. She raised an eyebrow imperiously. “Speaking from personal experience, are we?”

Argenta smirked. 

Clara let out a small sigh of relief as she sank into her chair. She’d been so scared that Argenta had found everything out and was going to confront her, but everything seemed the usual between them. Just a little bit longer, Clara thought, unpacking her things. She just needed a little longer to figure out a way to ease Argenta into the revelation, a little longer for herself to prepare for the consequences. She needed to find a way to make it seem as if she hadn’t been lying this whole time, except she had been lying about it the whole time, Clara thought sourly. If she tried to pass it off as something she’d only recently figured out, that would be yet another lie, and one Argenta would easily clock if she checked with Andrea.

Clara made a small noise of frustration, wishing she’d come clean with Argenta at the very beginning. 

Argenta paused in the middle of applying some shimmer to her cheeks. “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Nothing.”

One of Argenta’s brows rose slightly in question. 

“It’s nothing!” Clara insisted. 

“Okay,” Argenta replied. She pressed her lips together, her hurt feelings over Clara’s reticence obvious in the way that her gaze flickered to the floor before going back to the mirror. 

“Look, I just remembered something I should have done months ago,” Clara began, almost stumbling over to herself to explain. “Now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass.”

“I thought you liked that,” Argenta said wryly.

“Normally, I would,” Clara said. She’d like that if Argenta were the one doing the biting, Clara thought, a little thrill traveling up and then back down her spine at the imagined sensation of Argenta bending her over. Uh oh, bad news for tucking. Clara diverted her thoughts quickly. She declined to elaborate on what it was she should have done, and by unspoken agreement, Argenta did not inquire.

Clara picked up her foundation, trying to picture the least sexy things she possibly could, avoiding Argenta’s gaze in the mirror. There was a knock on the door. 

“Are you ladies decent in there?” came Andrea’s voice, muffled. 

“We’re never decent,” Argenta replied. 

“Then you’ll have no problem with me coming in.” Andrea swept into the room, a gin and tonic in each hand. He and Argenta nodded at each other—he seemed satisfied with her appearance, flawless as always, but he spent longer studying Clara. She barely had anything on her face besides primer, beard cover and her brows, but Andrea Rhodea scrutinized her as he would a prized painting, before finally nodding. 

“I see much improvement,” Andrea observed, the very statement meaning that there was still more work for Clara to do to get the type of wordless approval that Argenta had received. “And not all of it thanks to Argenta.”

“I’ve been practicing on my own,” Clara said defensively.

“I wouldn’t want my name attached to that mug,” said Argenta at the same time.

Andrea chuckled while Clara grabbed one of her brushes and chucked it at Argenta, who snatched it easily out of the air without even flinching, even though it had been aimed right at her head. She threw it right back and Clara had to duck—it came whizzing at her too quickly for her to visually process. It clattered harmlessly against the wall and fell onto the carpet. Clara scowled at Argenta to see if she was going to pick it up, but Argenta made an innocent ‘it’s not my fault you can’t catch’ face, so Clara had to be the one to get up and retrieve it. It was one of the brushes that Argenta had given her, thankfully undamaged. She was fairly sure that if Argenta had wanted, she could have stuck it halfway into the drywall. 

“Girls, I didn’t realize you’d converted the dressing into a coliseum,” Andrea said dryly, sliding the cocktails onto their tabletop for them.

“Helps pass the time,” Argenta replied. “And it keeps Clara on her toes.”

“My toes are fine, thank you, unlike yours,” Clara curled her fingers, in mimicry of Argenta’s toes, which frequently curled over the edge of any peep-toe pumps she owned, because her feet were so big she couldn’t find any shoes that fit properly.

Argenta snorted.

“Should I leave you two alone and come back later?” Andrea asked, his voice dripping with suggestion. 

“Yes, and don’t mind the screaming,” said Argenta tersely. 

Clara was sure Argenta had meant to imply murder, but the ambiguity gave Clara an opening to make a few sexual moans and completely change the meaning of Argenta’s sentence. The joke brought a smile to Andrea’s face, and a frown to Argenta’s, which Clara counted a small victory. 

“Since the two of you seem to be getting along so famously,” Andrea continued, giving each of them a significant look, “I was thinking of featuring you two in the Spring Eleganza Extravaganza Ball.”

Argenta’s frown deepened even further, but Clara brightened with curiosity. 

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a little spring solstice celebration we throw every year,” Andrea explained. “It’s not a ball as we knew it when I was growing up, but more a costume party we throw. There’s a theme every year, and the guests are asked to dress accordingly. We ask our stars to do one number—the usual as part of a big variety revue—but the draw for the attendees is that there are no tables. We clear the entire floor so the guests can mingle with the performers afterward.”

“Oh, that sounds exciting!” Clara exclaimed. 

“It’s a lot of fun,” Andrea nodded. “But Argenta’s never been.”

“It’s never been convenient,” Argenta said. “And I don’t like mingling.”

“Well, I’ll come,” Clara offered. Andrea’s mouth twisted with a smile, and they shared a look, which Andrea directed quickly in Argenta’s direction. Clara understood, and turned to Argenta. “Come on, doesn’t it sound like fun?”

Argenta made a noncommittal noise, and narrowed her eyes at her drag mother, whose answering expression said he was suggesting it all for Argenta’s own good. “I’m probably busy again,” Argenta said.

“Probably?” repeated Andrea skeptically. “I can’t imagine what would be a better use of your time than a ball.”

Argenta’s mouth twisted adamantly. 

“I suppose there’s no use in arguing further,” Andrea sighed dramatically. He regarded Clara, as if the decision were made. “I’ll put your name down on the poster, then. Just so you know, the proceeds from the ticket sales go to local charities in the undercity, including that orphanage in Sector 5.”

“So it’s for a good cause. Even better,” Clara quipped. 

Argenta glared at the both of them. 

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Clara asked, shooting Argenta her most wide-eyed, pleading look. She was already imagining working the floor of the Honeybee’s auditorium dressed in an elegant gown, sashaying beside Argenta Rhodea in an even more resplendent dress of white satin and pearlescent sequins. “What’s the theme?”

Andrea smirked. “Naughty nighties.”

“At a fundraiser for children?!” Argenta exclaimed. 

“The children aren’t invited,” Andrea replied. “We’re the Honeybee Inn, darling. Sex sells.”

Argenta huffed, conceding her mother’s point. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she muttered. 

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Andrea assured her patiently. 

Clara blinked, readjusting her mental image to Argenta not in a gown, but a lacy negligée. It still wasn’t good for the tuck. She shifted in her chair, crossing her legs. “Come on,” she wheedled. 

Argenta’s shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she snapped. “It’s still a few weeks away, so I can always change my mind.”

“Excellent,” Andrea nodded with approval, as if it had been Argenta’s choice, no persuasion needed. “I’ll add you to the poster too.” He grinned at his daughter, since going on the advertisements meant she could no longer back out. “I’ll go tell Augustine that the roster is set, so he can get on the printing in the morning.”

Andrea departed after wishing them well on stage, satisfied with the outcome of their conversation, while Argenta glared balefully at Clara, as if her agreement to attend the ball was all Clara’s fault. Hey, it was only partially her fault. 

“I can’t find anything—”

“I’ll go shopping with you,” Clara offered, turning back to her mirror and her makeup.

“I can shop on my own,” Argenta bristled. 

Clara watched Argenta Rhodea as she painted her own face, noting the faint, pleased smile on Argenta’s red lips, when she thought nobody was looking. Clara smiled too, and put out of her head any thoughts of confessions, of her new assignment to SOLDIER support, and even of Sephiroth, so that she could enjoy the silent company of Argenta Rhodea.


	26. Let’s Get This Party Started

“Man, do you ever take that thing off?” said Zack as he sauntered over to their table and set his tray down. 

“No, I wear it to sleep too,” Cloud replied. 

They were in the atrium of the Relaxation Floor, because the cafeteria there served burgers on Fridays. They had been going there for lunch as a treat for a few weeks now, because they could chat more freely here than the SOLDIER mess, and the food was certainly better. 

“But you’re eating,” Zack said. 

“The helmet covers his eyes, not his mouth,” Kunsel said reasonably. 

Cloud tried to keep his shoulders relaxed and natural as he avoided Kunsel’s gaze. He’d told them it was his sense of professionalism that required him to keep his helmet on, though Kunsel had bought it, Zack felt it was going a little overboard. 

“C’mon, Zack, stop giving the guy a hard time,” said Kunsel. 

“Fine,” Zack said. “Sorry.” 

Cloud shrugged, there were no hard feelings. They dug into the food, the juicy patty, fluffy bun, and creamy sauce. All three were silent for a few seconds as they ate, grateful it was the end of the week, and there was at least one day where there was decent food to be had anywhere in HQ. 

“Heard you got put on a new mission,” Kunsel said, putting his burger down for a moment in favor of the fries. 

“Another lot of weapons has gone missing,” Zack replied. “The Turks suspect there’s someone helping on the inside.”

“Where do you think they’re ending up?”

“I guess they’re being sold in the undercity,” Zack said. 

“That might not be their ultimate destination,” said Kunsel thoughtfully. “Otherwise the higher ups wouldn’t get so worked up about it. They’d leave it to the PSD detectives.”

“Do you think they’re going to Wutai?” suggested Cloud quietly. 

“Maybe,” said Kunsel, frowning. “Or other organized anti-Shinra factions, or maybe even something new that they haven’t figured out.”

Cloud looked curiously at Kunsel. “Like what?”

Kunsel shrugged. “I dunno. That’s Zack’s job to find out,” he grinned. 

“Thanks for the help,” said Zack sarcastically. 

“You’ve got a Turk buddy assigned to you, right?” Kunsel said. “They didn’t leave you on this solo, did they?”

“They put me on with Cissnei, but she’s got a lot of other things on her plate, like tracking down Lazard,” replied Zack. “This is close to the bottom of her priority list in comparison.”

“That’s understandable,” Kunsel said. 

“You got any tips?”

Kunsel opened his hands. “My plate’s full too.”

“Just give me some advice. Angeal didn’t train me for investigative missions,” Zack said. “C’mon, you used to be an intelligence analyst. Help a guy out here.”

“If you’re smuggling something far, the goods will usually change hands a couple of times. Do you know who one of the middlemen is?”

Zack nodded.

“Start there, and see if you can tail them to get some intel. Easier said than done though,” Kunsel warned. 

“A lot of the weapons manufacturing actually happens in the slums,” Cloud said. “So, it’s possible the weapons you’re looking for aren’t even being moved far.”

“How’d you know that?” asked Zack, sounding mildly impressed. 

“Had to clean out a drake infestation in a factory late last year.”

Kunsel smirked. “Good excuse for you to spend more time down there.”

Zack nodded in agreement. 

Cloud tilted his head in question, since his helmet was hiding most of his expression. 

“His girlfriend lives in the Sector 5 slums,” Kunsel explained.

“Oh.” Cloud hadn’t known that Zack had a girlfriend. He wondered what she was like. 

“Apparently they met when he fell through her roof.”

“What?” said Cloud incredulously, turning to Zack. 

“Oh no, I’m not telling this story again,” Zack said. “I’m not drunk enough.”

“So you’ll tell it after a couple of drinks?” Cloud asked.

“Maybe if you pay for them.”

“He’ll do anything for free drinks,” Kunsel reassured him. “If you’re free tomorrow night, he’s probably up for it.”

“I’m not gonna turn down free drinks,” Zack said. 

“Why am I treating all of a sudden?” said Cloud with dismay.

“You want the story, you’re payin’.”

“And why aren’t you free tonight?” 

“Friday nights are date nights,” said Zack simply. “So if you wanna hear all about how I met Aerith, it’s gonna have to be tomorrow.”

Cloud smiled tightly. “I’m actually busy tomorrow.” The Spring Eleganza Extravaganza Ball was tomorrow night. He glanced at Kunsel, who surely knew that was happening. Argenta’s forums were abuzz about it, since it was the first time in her career that she was putting in an appearance.

“Maybe next week,” Kunsel suggested smoothly. “I’m on duty tomorrow night too.”

Cloud had expected Kunsel to ask more questions about Argenta since he’d started in Regiment X, but surprisingly, Kunsel had yet to pry.

Zack shrugged. It didn’t make a difference to him when they went out. “Sure.”

“Just to make it clear, though, I’m only paying for drinks for this guy.” Cloud cocked his thumb at Zack. “‘Cause he’s the one with the story.”

“I’ll just have to find a good story you’ll want to hear,” Kunsel replied with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve got tons.”

* * *

Zack was off half an hour early that evening. The Friday afternoon train down to the undercity was already packed, with barely enough room to stand. Ordinarily, Zack paid little attention to the people crammed into traffic with him, but now that he was on the lookout for a black market weapons middleman, he spotted a few familiar faces in Don Corneo’s colors—Brass Knuckles and Manbun—exchange a small packet in passing with a man in a suit and tie. Zack would have written it off as a drug deal and not his problem, but he recognized the Don’s lackeys, and there were usually two things being passed in a drug deal. This had just been the cash.

As soon as the white collar worker had taken whatever had been handed to him, he started moving on, squeezing through the congested carriage with hurried whispers of “excuse me” just like a polite, demure office worker. Zack glanced at Corneo’s men, their conversation moving onto other mundane topics, so Zack decided to pursue White Collar. 

The next train car over was even more packed, so his progress stopped, which let Zack keep a close eye on him through the crowd. White Collar disembarked at Sector 8, and Zack followed, figuring that Aerith would be okay if he was tardy for their date due to work. He was thankful for the density of the Friday afternoon crowd, which made it easy to trail someone without being too conspicuous. 

Zack hung back a few meters until it became clear the man was headed toward the entertainment district, where he wouldn’t be able to catch the guy without alerting the crowd. Zack quickened his pace to catch up to the man a couple of blocks before he hit Fountain Place. They strode side by side before White Collar noticed what was going on. 

“Hey,” Zack said when the man glanced at him, alarmed. Zack smiled his friendliest smile.

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“Bad news,” Zack grinned.

“Huh?”

“Bad news unless you do exactly what I tell you to.”

“What the fu—”

Zack grabbed the man, twisted his arm behind his back in an arm lock and shoved him into an adjacent alleyway before he could say anything further. 

“Ow!” White Collar’s cry was muffled as Zack shoved him face first into a brick wall. “What the fuck is going—aaah!”

Holding the man’s skull in his palm, Zack shoved it harder against the brownstone. “Shut the fuck up,” Zack hissed into his ear, twisting his arm for emphasis. “Or you’re spending the rest of the night in a hospital ward.”

“Who are you?” the man gasped, having enough wits about him to keep his voice low. “Just take the fucking money.”

“I’m not here for the fucking money.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I wanna know who those men were and what the money’s for.”

“You the police or something?”

“Oh, no. I’m way worse.” Zack pressed the man’s face into the wall again, just to emphasize what a bad idea it was to get on his bad side.

“I don’t know,” White Collar began.

“Wrong fucking answer.” He twisted the man’s arm further up his back, feeling his elbow creak. 

“Okay, okay, okay!” The man cried. “I’m just the Don’s middleman!”

“Who’s your supplier? And who is the Don selling to?”

“How the hell should I know? I’ve never met them! I just get instructions over text, where to pick stuff up, where to drop ‘em off.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true!” White Collar insisted. “Check the phone in my back pocket!”

“What are you dealing in?”

The man whimpered. “They’re gonna fucking kill me if I tell you.”

“You more fucking scared of them right now, or me?” growled Zack in a low voice.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m SOLDIER.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Now, you gonna behave?”

The man let out a series of self-pitying expletives, but he went limp in Zack’s hold and stopped resisting.

Zack let him go, but still had the Buster Sword out on him in case the dude was gonna make a run for it. White Collar eyed him warily, his dark suit rumpled, a copious amount of brick dust on his lapels. 

“You’re here about the Shinra weapons, aren’t you?”

“Among other things,” Zack replied curtly. “Keep talking.”

White Collar muttered something about rumors that it was a SOLDIER who’d been messing up the Don’s business, but Zack only took that as a compliment. 

“Look, if you wanna know who the supplier is, I have no fuckin’ clue. I just take the cash and pass it on. There are some complex networks Don Corneo runs, and we don’t all know each other. All I know is that there’s supposed to be a drop tomorrow night. Maybe you can find some folks there who’ll know more than me, or catch ‘em in the act or whatever, but that’s all I got. I swear.”

“Where’s the drop?”

“It changes every time, but tomorrow’s drop is in Wall Market.”

“Where in Wall Market?”

“Construction area behind the Coliseum.”

“You got any proof?”

The man dug into his back pocket and tossed a cheap burner phone at Zack. Zack checked it, verifying the text from an unknown number. 

“Can I go now?” White Collar asked.

Zack made a face. Did he come off as the type of guy that let a criminal involved in a smuggling operation walk off scot-free to tattle to his Corneo buddies and call the drop off tomorrow night? Zack flashed a smile. “Not a chance, buddy.”

“Hey, that wasn’t the deal!” the man protested. 

“The deal was that you weren’t going to spend the night in the hospital. I didn’t say anything about a jail cell.” 

To forestall any further objection, Zack held forth the Buster, the edge gleaming in the twilight that filtered between the two buildings on either side of their alleyway, an inch away from the man’s jugular. 

“Sorry, buddy, but I’m gonna have to call this one in.” 

He didn’t have the authority to make an arrest, but he knew who sure as hell did. He pulled out his own phone and dialed Cissnei’s number.

* * *

Cloud had a giant grin on his face the entire train ride down to Wall Market. It felt like he’d been waiting for this night for months, even though it had barely been a month and a half since Andrea had roped them into the ball. Cloud had brought a new outfit, a new wig—a lacefront, of course—new shoes and stockings to go with Clara’s Naughty Nightie look. He’d even pulled a double shift the night before, swapping with Aleksandr, to make sure his Saturday evening was free. He’d been pretty much useless all day, unable to do anything but double and triple check that he’d packed everything that Clara would need in his suitcase and wait for the earliest possible moment to come down. He was the first person out the door when the train alighted at the Wall Market station, and hurried as quickly as he could roll his luggage all the way to the Honeybee Inn. 

For the first time in many weeks, the dressing room was dark and empty. Argenta had been arriving first the past half year of their association, so it was strange to walk in and be the one to have to turn on the lights. Clara glanced at the closet, a smile crossing her face as she recalled the debacle that had been their first meeting. A fleeting thought crossed her mind, wouldn’t it be amusing to wander in there again. She wondered what Argenta’s reaction would be this time upon finding her in there. Best not try, just in case she fell over again, Clara thought. She turned away from the temptation, unpacked her things, and then sat down to paint. 

She finished in just over an hour, pleased with how quickly she was able to draw Clara on her face and how she was able to execute her vision. This was a new side of Clara she wanted to show—she could be so much more than the dumb, slutty bombshell in the miniskirt and tight top. She could also be the rich girl, just barely coming of age, tempting the older men with the blush of her youth. Instead of her usual blow-dried blonde look, she had two blond braids tied off with pink satin ribbons, one thrown over each shoulder. Her naughty nightie was a night shift, one an heiress of a wealthy and noble household might have worn a hundred years ago, but this one was cut scandalously high, ending a little higher than mid-thigh, so that if Clara bent over slightly, she would flash a bit of her panties. Her underwear was lacy, twin columns of pink bows travelling from her waist to her tuck, a purposefully tempting sight for any lucky person who might catch a glimpse down there. 

Her shoes were tall, chunky heels in rose pink patent vinyl, secured with a strap around her ankle, the vinyl detailing reminiscent of doll’s shoes or the girl’s uniforms at the fancy, private schools. Even her face was painted whimsically young, her cheeks rouged as if nipped by the cold, the tip of her nose slightly pink. She looked like an innocent maiden looking to be debauched for the first time by a much older man, one she might coyly call ‘daddy’ if the price was right.

Clara looked up when the door opened and Argenta came in, draped in her long trench that disappointingly revealed nothing. Argenta paused in the doorway, surprised to find Clara already ready. She spent a moment to appraise Clara’s new look. 

“Someone’s going home with a sugar daddy tonight,” Argenta remarked. 

Clara smirked. “You like it.”

“I never said I didn’t.” Argenta unbuttoned her coat, revealing a robe of sheer black gossamer, lined at the hem with sable feathers. She had on a high-waisted lace panty in black, with straps that travelled her hips and belly to connect to her bra, also translucent lace. It was tasteful and refined, and she cut the very image of an actress in a pinup. It was exactly what everyone would expect Argenta Rhodea to wear, even though she rarely showed this much skin in her drag. Clara especially appreciated the view, the length of Argenta’s legs for days emerging from the slit in her robe with every step. 

The geometric pattern of the straps criss-crossing her torso was carefully calculated to disguise the firm muscles of her abdomen, chiseled by a lifetime of military training. The compact sinew of her shoulders, and the shadows of her biceps were similarly obscured by the sheer fabric of the robe, the smooth lines of her arms ending in the long, glossy nails of an elegant manicure. Blond waves fell past her shoulders, bouncing just at the right height to frame her breasts on either side and only slightly obscured her earrings, tinkling glass beads and a feather dangling from each ear, one black and one white. An interesting choice of accessory, Clara thought, her mind catching on them as if she found them familiar. They were rather large for bird’s feathers, spanning the length from Argenta’s earlobe almost to her shoulder. They were faintly iridescent in the light. 

Clara sucked in a breath, remembering where she had seen wings of that color, on Genesis Rhapsodos and Angeal Hewley. She stared at Argenta with wide eyes, stunned and aching, wondering if those were the last, tangible mementos Argenta had of her friends. 

“Well?” Argenta said expectantly. She frowned. 

Clara realized she’d been staring at Argenta for far too long without a word. “I like your earrings,” Clara managed. 

Argenta’s gaze sharpened, incredulous that after baring her body, the only nice thing that Clara had to say about her was how she accessorized.

Clara laughed, recovering quickly from her initial surprise and easily passing off the remark as her teasing Argenta. “And you look gorgeous, of course, but you hardly need me to tell you that.”

Argenta shot her a withering look, but Clara only grinned wider. Some of the tension in Argenta’s shoulders and the stiffness of her back disappeared as she hung up her coat and strode to the mirror to admire her reflection. 

“Don’t worry, Rufus, I’ll steer you away from the Shinra executives tonight.”

Argenta sniffed. “You’re welcome to them yourself, my dear,” she said.

“Oh, I’ve got my sights set much higher,” Clara said airily, the words coming out before she registered where that train of thought was ultimately headed. She was glad her foundation was thick enough to hide her flush of embarrassment, as she had been about to imply that she’d set her sights on the Vice President, by which she meant Argenta, since they were still joking about her identity as Rufus Shinra.

“All the way to the top? Good luck,” Argenta snorted. 

She went to her closet and brought out her cosmetics, which gave Clara a couple of seconds to breathe a sigh of relief, even though Argenta seemed to think that Clara had implied she was aiming for President Shinra. Ew, but more importantly, phew. 

_Keep it in your panties,_ Clara chided herself. Yes, she wanted Argenta, and yes she wanted Sephiroth too, but she usually saved those thoughts for when she was alone in her room, masturbating on her bed after lights out. This was neither the time nor place for those passions to surface, no matter how naughty or thematically appropriate they were. 

“Come here.”

Clara looked up, Argenta’s voice shaking her from her thoughts of how she definitely should not be thinking about Argenta in certain ways, even though every aspect of her outfit, from the sheer lace to the thin straps, a pleasing contrast to her pale skin, were meant to evoke those desires. 

“What?” 

“Come here,” Argenta repeated. 

Clara rose dutifully and went to Argenta’s chair. 

“I think you could use a little bit of glitter on your cheeks and on the tip of your nose.”

“Oh.” Clara forcefully exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She held herself still so she wouldn’t tremble as Argenta gently took her chin in her hands. Argenta dipped her fingers in a pot of shimmer, and lightly daubed some on Clara’s cheeks. 

This close to Argenta, Clara could swear Argenta must be able to hear her heart fluttering wildly or discern the quickening of her breath, but Argenta was staring at her work. She thought she caught a flicker of reciprocal desire in the vivid blue contacts Argenta wore, but Clara convinced herself that was just her imagination—those weren’t Argenta’s real irises. They performed together in the same show, they needed to maintain their professional relationship. 

“There,” Argenta said when she finished, and they both turned toward the mirror. 

For a moment, Clara only saw the two of them together, as beautiful as portraiture, despite their disparate personalities and drag styles.

“What do you think?”

Clara gazed at the shimmer that Argenta had added. It brought more dimension to her rosy cheeks. “It looks a lot better.”

“It does,” Argenta agreed with satisfaction.

“Thank you.” Clara noticed in her reflection that her ears were bright red.

“You’re welcome,” Argenta said, a fond smile on her lips. She did not remark on Clara’s flush, and for that small kindness Clara was profoundly grateful.

* * *

Zack had never been to Wall Market before, and it was disappointing that instead of coming here for entertainment, his Wall Market cherry was being popped because of work. It was packed with people for a Saturday night, posters and flyers all over town advertising something called the Eleganza Extravaganza Ball—he wasn’t even sure how to say those two words beginning with ‘E’—at the Honeybee Inn. There were a whole host of names on it, likely popular performers, but the only one he vaguely recognized was Argenta Rhodea. It was one of the largest on the poster. She must be pretty famous down here, he surmised.

The direction that White Collar’s burner phone from last night led Zack down a passage past the gaudy imitation Wutai facade that was called the Corneo Coliseum. Judging by the name, it was probably glorified cage fighting, but Zack was unable to take a peek inside. It was closed down for the night, its doors barred tightly shut, the building’s lights illuminating a ‘sorry for the inconvenience’ sign, and below it, yet another ubiquitous poster for the Honeybee’s ball. 

Everybody must be there, Zack mused, or at least, everybody who was anybody at Wall Market. It made sense that the drop was tonight, then, with the entire district’s attention turned elsewhere. 

The passageway turned quickly from faux Wutai walls to the recognizable concrete and steel of Midgar construction. Zack was not even a hundred meters from the commercial thoroughfare, but already the streetlights were non-existent. He wouldn’t want to be an ordinary resident navigating this alley, he’d probably get jumped on a normal night. The sounds of Wall Market behind him faded as he continued, navigating by his sensitive SOLDIER vision and the occasional flickering lamp overhead. He eventually found himself in a small clearing, piled full of rusting storage containers, old heavy machinery from bygone years, and detritus accumulated over time as people had started to use the area as a dumping ground. It was silent, only Zack and the occasional rat scuttling across his boot making any noise. 

He wandered the area, looking for the same types of boxes he’d seen with Bina previously, but every container he found was empty. The message hadn’t mentioned an exact time for when the drop was supposed to be taking place, just ‘halfway between sundown and midnight.’ Could he be too early or too late already?

It occurred to Zack that he should have told someone he was coming down here to investigate, maybe Kunsel or Cissnei. But he was here for reconnaissance, not to charge in with his Buster Sword swinging, even if that was normally more his style. He wanted to demonstrate that SOLDIER could do both, that Zack Fair could pull off the missions that required patience and stealth, not just brawn. 

Zack waited in the cul de sac at the end of the path for an hour, before starting to get antsy. He checked the phone to confirm he was in the right place, and did another search, walking back the way he came to see if he missed anything. Between two discarded construction barriers, Zack finally noticed a set of cellar doors set into the ground. They were the type of doors found in backyards that would normally lead beneath the foundations of a building, except here they were in the middle of nothing, and artfully hidden in a particularly shadowed area. 

Zack went and examined them, finding one door slightly ajar. The staircase below the opening led underground, into the darkness. It seemed exactly the type of tunnel that smugglers of pilfered Shirna weapons would use, so instead of waiting around, Zack made the decision to scout it out. 

He kept one hand on the wall as he descended, counting out more than two hundred steps before he gave up. ‘Hella deep underground’ was accurate enough for his purposes. It was slow going, his SOLDIER vision struggling with only the pithy light from his phone screen to guide the way. It smelled damp and musty down here, and occasionally Zack got a waft of sewer, which almost made him gag from the stench. He hoped that wasn’t where this tunnel ultimately lead, but he wasn’t optimistic.

There was nowhere to go but forward or back, the passage lined only with roughly hewn stone, sometimes wet to the touch. He should have charged his phone, Zack thought glumly, as keeping the screen on for light was quickly draining the battery. He kept his wits about him, listening for any sounds from the smugglers who were supposed to be here, but there was nothing save for his soft footfalls on dirt.

After several twists and gentle sloping turns, Zack found himself confronted with double doors carved out of metal. He had no idea where he was now, save for beneath the slums. He could have even crossed sectors by now, but he didn’t think he had quite wandered that far. 

There was again no discernable sound from beyond the door, and no light at all. The handle gave easily when Zack tried it, and he was able to ease the door aside smoothly, on well-oiled hinges. The passageway widened, the floor smoothing out into concrete. It was another few steps before he encountered another set of doors, these ones much larger, but he still managed to part them in the middle, making an opening wide enough for him to squeeze through. 

He emerged within a cavern, or at least that’s what he thought it was, from the way the air pressure suddenly lifted. There was a faint breeze in here, as if there was air making it from above ground. It smelled faintly of metal and concrete, the way that Midgar smelled. The light from Zack’s phone didn’t reach the ceiling and only illuminated the gloom, but he saw beside him, just as his phone’s battery gave out and the light from his screen faded, smooth masonry. 

What an odd place for a drop, Zack thought. He wondered how big the cavern was, so he began walking the perimeter, his gloved fingertips still brushing the wall for guidance. It kept turning in after a few steps of leading him straight. Weird, Zack decided. 

“Hello?” he called out experimentally. His voice echoed back to him, along with the faint scrape of metal. 

Zack whirled, heading back toward the doors at a run. They had slid shut, and he’d heard locks click and bars fall. 

“Hey!” Zack shouted. He banged on them with his fists, but there was no response. _Shit._ He realized he had just walked into a trap, likely sprung on him by Don Corneo in concert with his mysterious supplier. _Fuck!_ His investigation had gone too smoothly, White Collar’s information too freely given, and the many doors to reach this place too easily opened. 

Zack unshouldered the Buster, trying to slice through the metal doors, but the Buster screeched against it, not cutting at all. Zack swore again.

Behind him, in the cavern, he heard the echoes of something creaking, reminding him of the shuddering of a wooden cabin in a storm. Something was moving across the concrete in the darkness, with shuffling, limping footsteps. It sounded big, but it didn’t sound human. 

Zack turned slowly toward the noise, holding the Buster Sword before him. He couldn’t even see past its tip into the blackness.


	27. Slay the Hell House Down

The festivities were already well underway by the time that Argenta Rhodea and Clara Skye glided onto the floor of the Honeybee Inn after their performance. Between the stars taking to the stage, the large jazz ensemble provided the energetic, musical backdrop to the buzz of the crowd that packed the auditorium. The people were a constant sea of motion, Midgar’s socialites meeting, clustering, and then dissipating in small groups into the periphery of the room, where the VIP cocktails tables were situated, while Honeygirls and boys threaded amongst the crowd bearing hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne. A few of the patrons were already on the dance floor, turning and twirling in an old swing dance that Argenta recognized from a black and white film she’d watched when she was young.

Since emerging from backstage, Argenta had hardly made it twenty paces before her admirers approached, showering her with their adoration. Each step brought someone new, a fresh outpouring of gratitude for her performances, effusive praise for her beauty and inspiration. A small crowd had gathered around, each awaiting their turn to speak with her. When they were done, she simply smiled and graciously accepted their thanks, and waited for the next person to come near. Argenta was grateful for Clara remaining at her side, subtly interjecting herself between Argenta and those who got too close, Clara’s presence a reminder not to tread too far into Argenta’s personal space. 

The poor girl received only a fraction of the attention that Argenta received, for she was not yet well known by the Honeybee’s occasional clientele or universally liked by Argenta's fans, despite having blossomed into a strong queen in her own right. But Clara did not look resentful at being treated as Argenta’s invisible shadow, there was instead contentment in her features. Argenta thought that odd at first, until she dismissed it as Clara's enjoyment of the ball. When Argenta finally made it through the circle of her admirers, they headed for the bar together. 

Being alone with Clara allowed Argenta the opportunity to study the small improvement she’d made to Clara’s makeup, as they slowly made their way across the floor. She hoped the addition of the shimmer hadn’t seemed the transparent ploy that it was to take Clara’s face in her hands again and stare at her natural beauty up close. Argenta realized that she had been arriving at the Honeybee earlier than usual for her shows these past few months, telling herself it was because Clara impeded her preparations, when in reality, she had been sneaking glances at the definition of Clara’s shoulders and the contours of her six-pack while she’d gotten into drag. Argenta had always thought that dark, tall, and chiseled was her type—men like Angeal Hewley—but perhaps her attraction wasn’t so much about the physical qualities as it was about men who were confident and kind, qualities which Clara possessed as well. 

“What drink do you want?” Clara asked. 

“Hm?” Argenta blinked. They were at the bar already. 

“I’ll order,” Clara offered.

Argenta glanced at the bartender, who had been working at the Honeybee longer than she’d been performing. “He knows what I like,” Argenta said.

When they got their drinks, Clara set a brisk pace, beelining for Andrea’s VIP table, so their journey would not be interrupted further. Argenta did not complain, for she was nearing the end of her patience for strangers, no matter how well-meaning, and a few minutes of the company of her friends would be a welcome respite before she had to venture out again into the fray.

En route, Argenta spotted Palmer from the Space Department, dressed in pajamas made of black latex, which hung loose around his ankles, but stretched awkwardly around his middle. She quickly averted her eyes, before the image ruined the rest of her night. Argenta felt a gentle touch on her arm. 

“Are you okay?” Clara asked. 

“No,” Argenta said, and pointed out Palmer in the crowd. 

“Ew!” Clara exclaimed quietly, and turned away as well. They giggled together at their supremely childish reactions, sharing a private moment.

“I see you’re having a good time,” Andrea said, approaching them both. He flashed a winning smile at Argenta. “Aren’t you glad you came, my dear?”

Argenta heaved a much put-upon sigh. “Yes, mother,” she said, feigning great reluctance.

Andrea’s grin widened. “Excellent.” He turned his smile to Clara, and he simply nodded in appreciation of her outfit. He was about to say something else, but a movement from the entrance of the theatre caught his eye. 

“Excuse me, ladies,” Andrea said smoothly. He gave Argenta’s arm a reassuring pat. 

“Who’s that?” Clara asked, turning in the direction Andrea had gone. 

“Madam M,” Argenta replied, as the masseuse stepped into the theatre, clad in a silk kimono, richly patterned with cherry blossoms. Madam M snapped her fan open regally, her mouth curving in a pleased smile as Andrea came to greet her and offer her his arm. “She owns a massage parlor, and wields a lot of influence in town.”

“Massage parlor or ‘massage parlor’?” Clara asked.

“It’s Wall Market, darling,” Argenta replied. 

Clara snorted. 

Argenta felt a sudden chill, the creeping sensation that she was being watched. She turned to find Don Corneo and his entourage breaking away from the crowd of guests and making their way toward her. Argenta cursed silently. The Don had made it quite clear since her debut five years ago that he desired to conquer her, that he wanted her as one of his brides. It was only through Andrea’s deft maneuvering, by spreading the rumor that Argenta was in fact Rufus Shinra, that had managed to dissuade Corneo from pursuing her seriously. His thirst for women was slaked nightly by those unfortunate or desperate enough to compete amongst themselves for his favor, so Argenta wondered how drunk or high the man would have to be to try wooing her himself. 

“Argenta Rhodea!” The Don let out a cry, loud enough that their entire area of the theatre heard. Many heads turned in their direction. “You’ve finally come to one of Andrea’s parties!”

“Who the hell is that?” Clara hissed quietly, her hackles rising as she stepped protectively in front of Argenta. 

“Don Corneo. He runs Wall Market and most of the crime in the undercity.” Argenta put a hand on Clara’s shoulder, and gently moved her a step back. “We have to tread carefully.”

That was all the time she had to explain before the Don was upon them with a squeal of delight and the heavy stench of alcohol. His fingers, each digit crammed with jeweled rings, wiggled suggestively as his eyes raked across Argenta’s body. Her skin crawled as he ogled her from head to toe several times, his greedy gaze lingering on her breasts, her crotch, and her thighs. 

Argenta would have loved to crush the man to death in an instant with a Gravity spell, but she had neither the materia equipped on her nor the luxury of strangling him in front of everyone at the ball, since Andrea’s place in the Wall Market hierarchy depended on the good graces of the Don. Corneo managed to keep Shinra from breaking up Wall Market’s dubiously legal activities, including what transpired within the walls of the Honeybee Inn, and in exchange for that protection, the district and all of its forbidden pleasures lived under his thrall. That was the delicate balance that had been struck, and even Argenta’s fate as a performer at the Honeybee was tied to it, however indirectly.

“You are even larger in real life than you are on stage!” the Don exclaimed with a rapacious grin, as if her very existence turned him on. 

Beside her, Clara eyed Don Corneo and his crew with a look of disgust, but Corneo had yet to even acknowledge her presence, though his men leered at her hungrily. He was surrounded by a sizable retinue—Scotch and Kotch, the announcers at the Coliseum and his loyal enforcers, his new beastmaster, and several more of his trusted lieutenants and lackeys. He had brought more people than anyone else Andrea had invited, surely more tickets than Andrea had allotted him, but the Don got away with things like this, because Andrea was in no mood to rock the boat. Argenta could not openly repudiate the Don here, and not have her drag mother bear worse consequences later. 

“Must be the perspective,” Argenta observed coolly. Her drag was not for some man’s crossdresser fetish, she seethed inwardly, but managed to maintain her outward composure. 

Don Corneo nodded, pretending to consider Argenta’s remark seriously. He grinned at her. “Then what do you say we adopt a more horizontal perspective?” The Don laughed at his own innuendo, his snorting sounding faintly like that of an ass.

“But it’s still early in the night,” Argenta said, placing a restraining hand on Clara’s shoulder as the girl took a step forward. She caught Clara’s eye in warning—the Don was not to be touched. “How about we drink and enjoy the evening first?” Argenta suggested, hoping that getting the Don well and truly smashed out of his wits would give her the opportunity to refuse him. If he was unconscious, he couldn’t assault her, and in turn, she wouldn’t have to kill him for trying to force himself on her. 

“The evening first, other enjoyments later,” Don Corneo agreed, with a leer. The rest of his henchmen surrounded her and Clara, and they had little choice but to accompany them to the Don’s special table.

* * *

Zack struggled to his feet. His head was fuzzy from the impact of something having knocked him off his feet and into the wall. He groped for the Buster Sword, which had fallen out of his grip and clattered to the ground nearby. He felt about the smooth, concrete floor until he found the hilt. Wherever the tunnel had taken him, this was no run-of-the-mill smuggler’s cavern. 

Geometric tessellations materialized from out of the darkness, as if someone had illuminated the pattern of the linoleum on his mother’s kitchen floor, except it was floating in mid-air. Zack thought he must be hallucinating from a mild concussion, but then his vision began to adjust. In the dimness, he could make out the edges of the thing in the not-cavern with him. It was monstrous in size, bulky and awkward, no legs or limbs to speak of, all right angles and sharp spikes on top. What could they be made of? Bone? It was not the silhouette of any living thing that Zack had ever encountered, but it wasn’t shaped like Shinra’s robots either, not a Sweeper, Launcher, or insectoid Sentinel. It did not whir or hiss, but it did creak and shudder, like a gale blowing through the forest or an ancient tree being felled by a squall. 

Few things frightened Zack nowadays. He had fought multiple incarnations of Bahamut unleashed upon him by Genesis, and he had battled a mutated and deformed Angeal, melded together with all the monsters he had been able to summon to his side in Modeoheim. All of these foes he had explanations for, but he had no understanding of the form that emerged, its outlines revealed by the unearthly light kindled within its shape.

It was a country house, one that would not have been out of place in some rural, mountainous backwater like Icicle Inn or Nibelheim, replete with wooden beams, window panes of mosaiced glass, and clay roof tiles. It burned with a heat that distorted the air, rhythmically releasing embers like a fire fed by bellows, but it was not consumed by its flames. It shuffled with belabored scraping and the grind of metal on concrete, growing in Zack’s vision until he realized that it had leapt toward him. It was alive!

Zack moved more by instinct than thought, rolling away in the nick of time as the house crashed to the concrete with the groan of timber. He lifted his sword, and thrust the blade straight out. The Buster Sword could cut clean through metal and cleave monsters in two with a single strike, but now the tip glanced harmlessly off the house’s exterior, hardly leaving a scratch. The house paused, as if reacting to the blow. Zack missed the movement, the screech of ore on lumber, a shadowy blur that was there and gone again in the blink of an eye. The house’s front door swung open, before Zack could see what had come out and opened it. 

There was nothing on the inside, except blackness, not even a lick of flame, though the blaze surrounding the roof meant he should have seen a towering inferno. Zack made the mistake of taking a step closer, of looking in, and that was when it grabbed him. A gust of wind stronger than the force from a turbine caught him, sweeping him up as easily as it would a dead leaf, and sucked him into its dark innards.

Zack would have hit the floorboards—or whatever it had in exchange for an interior—face first if he hadn’t flipped onto his feet at the last moment. He swung the Buster Sword around him in a wide arc, trying to fend off whatever might be lying in waiting, but it stuck into something above his head. He hadn’t felt a landing or an impact, but something was holding onto his sword. Metal rattled overhead, the clatter of sharp blades, and Zack twisted away from the sound, diving away and letting go of the Buster. He heard the telltale thunk of several pieces of steel sinking into wood, where he had just been standing a second ago. Zack was just about to congratulate himself on successfully evading an unseen attack when the pain hit him, searing through his awareness. 

Zack put his hand behind his back, and it came away damp with blood. He found a piece of shrapnel as large as a dagger lodged into his back, he was fortunate it had missed his kidney. 

“Shit.”

His Cure materia was in his Buster, and he was too far away to use its focus. He cast Fira instead at the windows, hoping to break them and make his escape. They looked faraway, as if separated from Zack by a great distance, though the house could not have been more than ten paces across. The spell dissipated before it even left his hands. The house had simply drunk up the magic, slurped it directly from the materia slotted in his bracer. He tried it again, but the magic disappeared once more, before it could even take shape. His back was in agony, the sting of torn flesh grew in his mind, along with the sensation of his own blood seeping into his shirt. His head was still pounding like a wardrum from when he’d been dashed against the walls of the not-cavern, and he was overwhelmed by the desire to sit down, close his eyes, and have a rest. 

Zack was forced to confront the distinct possibility that he might die here, in a house that ate magic, in a house that was probably eating him. Damn it, he should have told Aerith where he was going.

* * *

Argenta was only half-listening to Don Corneo and his entourage, speaking only the occasional word that encouraged them to continue talking, while she plied all of them with the strongest liquor the Honeybee had on offer. She made sure the Don’s glass was never empty. Though he had already made his way most of the way through a bottle, he remained stubbornly upright in his chair, and unexpectedly coherent. The pig sure could hold his alcohol, Argenta thought with disgust. Any ordinary man would have to be rushed to the emergency wards by now.

The Don’s lackeys were boasting of their exploits, their greatest accomplishments for the Don, as if that might raise their esteem in Clara and Argenta’s eyes. They had started with petty crimes—theft, robbery, and blackmail in the name of Don Corneo, but not to be outdone by one another, each new story told was more criminal and outlandish than the last. The Don’s men described drug deals and smuggling operations in rousing detail, and even the murder of a rival gang leader who had starting infringing on Corneo’s business. Clara and Argenta shared a grim look between them, knowing that the Don’s crimes were likely to go unpunished, since Shinra turned a blind eye to the corruption of the undercity. Argenta wondered when Corneo was finally going to collapse and spare them further grueling detail. At least Scotch was almost to the point of complete inebriation, she noted, though he was clinging to consciousness like a drowning man might cling to the mast of a rapidly sinking ship. 

“Y’know why we’re all here?” Scotch grinned at Clara from behind his sunglasses, his gaze unfocused and his breath heavy with booze. 

“Is it because you like balls?” Clara said sweetly. 

“It’s a setup,” Scotch giggled, completely missing the double entendre in Clara’s response.

“A setup?” Clara asked. In the midst of pouring the Don another double shot, Argenta cocked one ear toward the conversation. 

“There’s a guy we’re tryna get rid of,” Scotch slurred. “Big pain in th’ ass dude.”

“Scotch….” The Don attempted to warn his henchman, but Argenta intervened. 

“Another shot?” she asked, handing Don Corneo another glass. 

The Don clasped both of her hands in his, and Argenta noticed that her hands were the larger pair. His palms were damp, and it was through her iron will that Argenta didn’t immediately withdraw in revulsion. 

“Only if you drink with me, my dear,” Corneo simpered. 

Argenta smiled. “Of course,” she said, and only then did Don Corneo let her go. She poured a shot glass for herself, and clinked with the Don. With Corneo's attention otherwise occupied, Scotch was allowed to continue his story.

“Set ‘im up in th’ Col...Col...Col-see-um,” Scotch said, at Clara’s urging. “Tha’s what he gets for messin’ with our business. Prob’ly there right now, and all of us here.” He grinned and tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Alibi. I thoughta that one.”

“There’s a man in the Coliseum?” Clara repeated. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with the drinks she’d had, but neither she nor Argenta had been matching the Don’s men for drink, so they were only slightly tipsy. “What’s he doing there?”

“Fightin’.” Another giggle bubbled out of Scotch. 

“Fighting what?”

“The Hell House.”

“Someone is fighting a house?” Clara asked, confused. 

Scotch frowned. “Not jus’ someone. A SOLDIER. Big fucking guy.”

Argenta gasped, and dropped her glass onto the carpet, where it bounced harmlessly. Thankfully she’d already emptied it. 

“Argenta,” Don Corneo chided gently. “You’re a little drunk, my dear,” he grinned, using the excuse to lean over the table. “You didn’t spill on yourself did you?” He made a move for her with his hands, but Argenta blocked them by throwing up the edge of the tablecloth, and they seized soft fabric instead of her body.

“SOLDIER soldier or normal soldier?” Clara asked quickly, darting a glance in Argenta’s direction before turning back to Scotch. 

“SOLDIER soldier,” Scotch grunted. He waved at Kotch, sitting beside Argenta and minding his manners. He knew better than to handle any woman the Don had his eye on. “Whuz th’ guy again?”

Kotch turned to his friend unsteadily. He paused, squinting his eyes in thought. He shook his head after a couple of moments, a name not forthcoming. “Big sword,” he said. “Black hair. Zack somethin’ or other.”

Argenta froze. 

“Shinra’s never gonna know what hit ‘em,” said Scotch in a singsong voice.

"Serves 'im right," Kotch agreed, and laughed. 

“Excuse me.” Before Argenta even knew what she was doing, she had risen to her feet. Her mind connected three simple facts: Zack Fair was locked in the Coliseum with the Hell House. It was the product of an old Shinra R&D initiative gone horribly awry, a self-assembling, robotic abode imbued with magic and primitive intelligence, a revolutionary invention that was supposed to make Shinra billions until it went haywire. It was meant to completely reinvent how the world thought about real estate—imagine houses that would move with you and protect you from harm—but instead it was insane and indestructible, its crude mind turned menacing and murderous after months of torturous tinkering by Shinra’s engineers. It could not be defeated by a single man, not even a First Class SOLDIER. Argenta had seen the Hell House only once in a Coliseum bout. There had been nothing left of the gladiator who had been pitted against it, save for a large spatter on the concrete that had had to be hosed down and scoured to remove the bloodstains. Argenta never returned to the Coliseum after that.

She was already halfway across the theatre when Corneo thought of calling out to her. “Argenta!” he bellowed, but her name was faint in her ears, the hubbub of the ball muted. She shoved her way through the throng of revelers, pushing bodies aside when they didn’t clear out of her path fast enough.

She made her way to the front entrance of the Honeybee Inn, the stuffy atmosphere of the auditorium giving way to the crisp night air. There were a few partygoers smoking outside, all pausing mid-conversation when they saw her emerge on the threshold. She didn’t even register their presence as she dashed off in the direction of the Coliseum, as fast as her heels would allow, the hem of her sheer robe shedding black feathers in her wake.

* * *

“Argenta!” Clara called after her, but Argenta was tearing through the theatre like a woman possessed. 

“Where’s she going?” Corneo asked, realizing too late that his drinking companion for the night might be gone for good. 

“Probably the bathroom,” Clara replied hurriedly. “I have to go too.” She couldn’t come up with a better lie on the fly, and leapt up while the Don’s men were still looking around in confusion, and it had not yet occurred to them to try and stop her. 

Her mind raced. She had no idea what a Hell House was, but it must be fearsome and terrible for Argenta to have that reaction to the knowledge that Zack, a First Class SOLDIER, was facing it alone in combat. Clara knew that Argenta must have gone to help him, but she wasn’t armed. She had no sword, no materia, no armor. It was impossible to conceive that Argenta Rhodea might be going to face something she could not defeat. Clara watched helplessly as Argenta strode out of the Honeybee. Every part of Clara screamed at her to follow, but she clenched her fists at her side, and made the difficult decision not to pursue Argenta. She went to find Andrea instead. 

She rushed back into the theatre and found Andrea in a corner, accompanied by Augustine, Madam M and a man who looked like he’d just come in from wrangling chocobos on his ranch. All four startled as Clara crashed their conversation. 

“I have to talk to you,” she told Andrea. He took one glance at her and nodded without question, excusing himself from his company. 

“Let’s go to my office,” he said, and ushered Clara to walk alongside him with an arm. “What’s wrong?” he asked in hushed tones.

“Argenta’s gone to the Coliseum.”

“What? Why?”

They ducked into a side exit, and found themselves in a shadowy corridor. Andrea led the way. 

“The Don’s men said they’ve put Zack in there with the Hell House. Some setup or something,” Clara explained hastily. “We have to help her! She just ran off, she’s not even armed!”

Andrea was quiet as he cut a brisk pace upstairs to his office. He instructed any Honeygirls and Honeyboys in passing to ensure that Don Corneo be especially well taken care of, and not to allow him or any member of his entourage to leave the ball. They all nodded and went to see to his orders. Clara followed behind apprehensively, forced to trust that Argenta’s drag mother would know what to do. Everything seemed to be happening too slowly, seconds feeling stretched like minutes. Clara wondered how long it would take Argenta to reach the Coliseum, and did she even have a plan for what to do when she got there?

Andrea burst into his office, throwing both doors open. He crossed the room, went behind his desk, and pulled out one of his business cards. He wrote a few short instructions on the back and signed it. He slid it across to Clara. 

“Take this to the materia shop. The man there will give you anything you want. Do you know what you need to get for him?”

It took Clara a moment to register that the ‘him’ Andrea referred to was Sephiroth.

“Yes,” Clara bobbed her head. “I do.” She could not retrieve the Masamune, but she could deliver the materia that Sephiroth needed to cast magic. 

“Good luck,” Andrea said simply, his expression grave. 

Clara nodded and then left without another word, clutching Andrea’s card tightly in her fingers. Argenta hadn’t stopped to change before she’d run off, so Clara didn’t have the time to undress or put on sturdier shoes either. She dashed out of the entrance, just as Argenta had done minutes ago, and headed for the materia shop.

She darted through the street as fast as the people milling about would allow her, hardly feeling the chill night air of the coming spring. She remembered running through Wall Market at a similar breakneck pace the year previous, her first chance meeting with Argenta feeling almost like a different life than the one she was living now. 

“Coming through!” she yelled when she saw a confluence of people in front of her, and enough hustled out of the way so she didn’t have to slow down. Somehow, the denizens of Wall Market knew not to stand in the way of a drag queen barrelling toward them. 

Clara threw open the doors to the materia shop, almost having run past it in the quiet part of town. It smelled like incense and sandalwood on the inside. She was greeted by a lifelike rendition of a Wutaian deity in repose in the entrance, only it lifted its head and shifted when Clara got close. She almost jumped, before realizing that it wasn’t a statue, it was the shop’s proprietor. Dimly, Clara remembered that Giselle had spoken of an uncle in Wall Market who owned a materia shop, but there was no time for Clara to ask. She shoved Andrea’s card at the man, waving it in front of his round spectacles. 

“Help! I need materia! It’s an emergency!”

It took an inordinately long time for the man to process those three simple statements, and rise from his position. He snatched the card from her fingers, peered over the edges of his dark glasses at it, and turned it around several times, as if he couldn’t believe its provenance. He even sniffed it, and as if the scent confirmed the card’s veracity, he got to his feet and shuffled behind the counter in the back of the store. 

“What do you need?” The man asked laconically. 

Clara’s mind went blank for a moment, as she struggled to recall Sephiroth’s favorite offensive configuration. It was a thing all of his fans would know, one of those facts he had read and memorized years ago, as one of Sephiroth’s many devotees. Clara recalled holding a glossy magazine in her hands, a Sephiroth special issue, the pages filled with his pictures and a lengthy interview. She had committed every fact she had learned in that magazine to memory. It seemed impossible that she had come from being a young boy in rural Nibelheim to becoming the drag queen now performing alongside Argenta Rhodea. Though she had not made it into SOLDIER as she had always dreamt, she had been assigned to Regiment X, SOLDIER’s permanent support corps. She was at Sephiroth's side, both as Clara and as Cloud. Come Monday, she would have to pull her uniform on and report for duty. 

“Gravity,” Cloud began, as the memory snapped clearly into focus. He remembered now, and quickly rattled off the rest of the list of materia he needed. 

“I assume you want ‘em all leveled,” the shopkeeper said.

“Yes, please.”

The merchant proceeded to pull all them out, gathering them on the counter on a small rack so they wouldn’t roll away. “You also want some equipment to go with ‘em?"

“Yes.”

“They all goin’ on one person?”

Cloud nodded. He knew that armor with that many materia slots was difficult to come by. There were few in the world who could handle that much materia at one time, who had such fine control that they could discern the different pieces from each other clustered that closely together. 

“Hm,” was the proprietor’s thoughtful response. “Hold on," he told Cloud, and disappeared into a back room. 

Cloud bit his lip, glancing at the clock, as if willing time to move faster. He had no idea when Sephiroth had run out of the Honeybee, but it felt as if hours had passed already. He took a deep breath, and refused to think of what the Hell House would do to him unarmed, if he was worried about Zack being able to survive it. 

Regiment X was beginning to learn how to cast magic, a special privilege of being the unit tasked with supporting SOLDIER, but they had yet to progress beyond the theory. Cloud did not know what he would do if the shopkeeper couldn’t find something big enough to hold all seven of Sephiroth’s materia. Maybe he could lob the materia Sephiroth needed at him? He was prepared to do anything. 

The proprietor returned, and plunked an ornate silver belt on the countertop. The long straps were of thin, finely tooled leather, the round metal buckle at one end cut with an artistic rendition of a single angelic wing. Three materia slots were inlaid at the top, while four metallic feather motifs dangled from the bottom like charms, each accommodating one additional materia. 

“It’s perfect,” Cloud breathed, imagining how equally fetching it would look adorning Argenta’s waist as it would Sephiroth’s leather coat.

The shopkeeper helped Cloud slot in the materia. "Thank you,” Cloud said, gratefully. He grabbed the belt and turned to go.

“Hold up.” 

Cloud stopped. 

“Got a few more things for you,” the shopkeeper winked with a knowing smile. He had figured out that the materia was not for Cloud. He plunked down two hand grenades, a short-barreled shotgun, and a bandolier of extra ammunition. 

Cloud’s mouth dropped open. He wondered what else the materia shop proprietor was dealing in if he was this well armed for a civilian. 

“Wherever you’re going, you’re gonna need ‘em.”

“Thank you.” Cloud slung Sephiroth’s belt over his shoulder, buckled on the bandolier, and gathered the shotgun in his arms. 

“Good hunting.”

Cloud had a smile on his face, as he stepped back outside the materia shop, and ran for the Coliseum, his heels echoing on the Wall Market cobblestones. Whatever the Hell House was, at least they stood a chance now.

* * *

The door to the Coliseum gave way easily under Argenta’s shoulder, groaning open as its bolts bent beneath the force of her battering. With a final kick, one of the doors swung open, nearly ripped from its hinges. A small crowd had gathered behind her, staring from the streets at what the giant drag queen was doing breaking into Corneo’s Coliseum while it was closed. They murmured amongst themselves—was she all right, was she not afraid of Corneo’s wrath—but she paid them no need and strode inside. 

The lights of the town provided her enough illumination to navigate through the Coliseum lobby. She went to the left, where the elevator for the entrants was located. It was still operational. They’d just shut off the lights, not the power. The door slid open, she entered and began the long descent underground. 

The ride allowed her to consider that she was completely unarmed. She hadn’t even brought any of the small shards of materia she used for effects for her lip syncs. There was little chance of her finding anything lying about the Coliseum, so she’d have to either improvise or rely on whatever materia Zack had equipped, if he was equipped. She wondered how he’d fallen afoul of Don Corneo, how they had lured him here, and whether she should have paid more attention when Varma had mentioned his investigation. Zack was still new to the undercity, she should have warned him. Argenta closed her eyes, hoping that she would find Zack still alive. 

The elevator came to an abrupt stop and opened into darkness. The elevator’s thin lights provided enough illumination for Argenta to quickly scan her surroundings before the doors slid shut. She cursed her contacts, for their blue irises blocked the full dilation of her vertically slit pupils, which afforded her better vision in the black. Her heels on the smooth floor echoed against the concrete walls as she made her way forward, the muffled sound of a long, inhuman groan growing louder the closer she approached the ring. She felt her way to the edges of the entrance, and managed to find the power switch, a crank that she had to wrench down in order for the lights to come on. Argenta threw a hand over her eyes, squinting at the sudden brilliance as the gates to the arena began to open, sliding into the wall. 

“Zack!” she called, turning sideways and squeezing through the door as soon as the crack was wide enough for her to pass through. 

With the ring fully lit, Argenta could see the grotesque bulk of the Hell House on the other side of the arena. It seemed to register the lights and her appearance in the ring, and spat out Zack Fair. He flew through the air as if booted, managing to catch himself on the ground with the help of his hands. He slid a few feet, panting heavily, before he sank to one knee. 

The Hell House whirled, turning its attentions on her, its unearthly fire flaring as it launched a salvo of flaming chairs in Argenta’s direction. She darted to the side, keeping one eye on the trajectory of the flying furniture and one eye on the Hell House. Argenta danced away from the missiles, the heat and smoke from their explosions stinging her eyes as she made her way closer to Zack. 

“Zack Fair!” she shouted, summoning the steely authority of military command as she continued to rush toward him. “Get up!”

Zack’s head lifted at her voice. He swept his gaze around the arena and past her twice, before regarding her with a confused expression. It wasn’t until she was within speaking distance that he recognized her. 

“Sephiroth? Is that you?” Zack asked. He looked even more confused as he looked her over from head to toe. “Holy shit, you’re a woman?” Sweat beaded on his brow and streaks of ash smudged his cheeks. The side of his shirt was soaked with his blood, from where a sharp piece of shrapnel had pierced his back. He was grimacing with agony, and barely upright, but he still managed a wan smile. “You should’ve told me earlier. I could’ve been using the right pronouns for you this whole time.”

“I’m a drag queen, Zack,” Sephiroth replied, mild annoyance momentarily overriding concern. 

“So you’re only a woman in drag?”

“It’s complicated,” Sephiroth said. He didn't have time to explain his genderfluidity to Zack in the middle of a fight.

“Well, you look surprisingly good in lingerie.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth replied tersely. They left it at that, and both turned back to the Hell House.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“Shinra’s abortive venture into real estate,” said Sephiroth. “Now it’s Don Corneo’s favorite pet.”

“Do you know how to beat it?”

Sephiroth shook his head. Some of his blonde curls were sagging from the heat, and the fiery chairs had singed his sheer robe, so he discarded it, slipping the thin fabric from his shoulders. He noticed Zack staring at him as he let it fall to the ground. He was wearing nothing but a bra and panties, and a lot of foam and silicone padding underneath. He was also still tucked. He was not dressed for a fight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. “We’ll have to figure it out. Do you have any materia on you?”

“Barely.” Zack plucked a materia from his bracer, and tossed it to him.

It was a leveled Fire. Sephiroth sensed heat emanating from its spherical depths. “That’s it? Where’s your Cure?” he asked, glancing with concern at the shrapnel still protruding from Zack. They couldn’t pull it out, for fear of the subsequent blood loss.

“I slotted it in the Buster, which it has inside there somewhere,” Zack explained, waving vaguely at the Hell House. 

Sephiroth suppressed a sigh, narrowingly avoiding a sardonic, ‘we’re fucked’. They had two offensive materia between them, and no melee weapons. Not that a sword was supposed to be able to do much damage to a house. He was not sure he could even do much to it with the Masamune. He gathered a knot of power, and shot off a Fira-strength fireball at the Hell House as a test. It smashed into the wooden exterior, but the magic fractured into small sparks, hardly doing any damage. It did, however, enrage the Hell House. It leapt toward them. 

Sephiroth danced to the side, moving lightly in his strappy heels, these simple movements no trouble for a queen who had been dancing in shoes like these for years. Zack had dived in the other direction, so they found themselves flanking either side of their enemy as it settled to the ground before them. They kept their distance and studied it carefully, evading more salvos of flaming chairs, and rushing out of range when it seemed to sink magic into the concrete, and sent out sheets of ice or filaments of electricity across the floor. Sephiroth knew that mako had been imbued into the Hell House, and so he decided to focus on the glow of its windows. He probed at the Hell House with his awareness, feeling it draw on its own magical power. Sephiroth caught faint impressions of infernos, glaciers, typhoons, and thunderstorms alongside each subtle shift of color. 

The Hell House shimmered again, and Sephiroth felt a ghostly cold breeze and smelled fresh snow. He swept his hand forward, and power swelled in his palm, filling his mind with fury as he cast a blistering Firaga. A conflagration erupted from out of thin air and enveloped the Hell House. It shuddered, and its front door flung open. Out came the Buster Sword, tumbling end over end, coughed up from the Hell House’s dark depths. It landed harmlessly on the floor, halfway to where Zack stood. When the spell disappeared, Sephiroth noticed that the house’s timbers bore fresh scorch marks. 

The Hell House fell still, sinking to the ground. It no longer shuffled or shook, but the sound within it crescendoed, a robotic whir accompanied by the clank of steel. Zack eyed the Buster, the unmoving Hell House, and dashed for his weapon. 

“Don’t!” Sephiroth warned. 

The Hell House began to shudder, bits of sawdust and smoke escaping from the crack under its front door. Metal feet extended from beneath its foundations, and long, claw-like arms exploded from its sides and roof. One appendage was a menacing blade, thick enough it could cut a man into two. A reflective, eyeless chrome head burst through the upstairs window, extended on a long curved neck. It gnashed its teeth, the length of Sephiroth’s arm, with the sound of grinding metal. It reached for Zack with one claw, but Zack reached his sword first, and managed to roll between the Hell House’s steel fingers before it could grasp him. 

Zack hit the ground in a cloud of dust, wincing as the impact rattled the shrapnel in his back, and rolled to his feet next to Sephiroth. He was close enough that Sephiroth was able to draw some magic out of his Healing materia, and before Zack could protest, he wrenched the piece of shrapnel out with one hand and cast Curaga to staunch the blood with another. 

"Thanks!" 

"Anytime." 

The Hell House rounded on them, screeching with rage because its prey had escaped. Arms windmilling, it dragged its mass across the concrete floor toward them, throwing up sparks. They dove to different sides again, Sephiroth narrowly avoiding the grasp of one claw. He leaned back, the edge of it missing his face by inches, but it caught on his wig, and a lock of platinum blonde hair drifted to the floor. There was a creak overhead, and Sephiroth looked upward, seeing a blur and the glint of a sharp edge. He threw himself backward violently, out of the way of the scythe-like appendage that swept downward, sharp enough to penetrate deep into the concrete. He staggered on his heels, but managed to maintain his balance. 

“Argenta!”

Sephiroth turned toward the bleachers at the sound of his name being called. It was Clara Skye, flying down the seats, toward them. 

“Clara!” Sephiroth shouted, both confused and dismayed. “What are you doing here?”

“Cloud? Holy shit, you’re a drag queen too?”

Sephiroth whirled, looking at Zack and then back at Clara. How did Zack know her? 

Leaping down steps two at a time, Clara quickly reached the edge of the stands. She peered down at them, braced against the railing. She took in the sight of the two of them and the Hell House in the ring, unfazed by its grotesque appearance. She looked fierce and heroic, with a shotgun slung over her shoulder and spare cartridges strapped about her torso, her weaponry an absurd juxtaposition to her short nightshift and the two braids resting on her shoulders. She regarded Sephiroth with a gaze that was steady and oddly serene, as if she had just made peace with a great burden that had been troubling her for a while. 

“Catch!” she cried, and then lobbed something at him. 

Reflexively, Sephiroth snatched the whipping streamers out of the air as they sailed past. A belt dangled from his hands, artistically rendered feather motifs surrounded by a circle of steel, a full set of materia already slotted. He passed his hand over them, sensing their properties, their eagerness to tug on the planet’s energy. Gravity, Fire, Ice, and Lightning flared furiously in his mind, while Healing and Barrier offered soothing and strength. In the final slot, there was a materia of Magic Power, to heighten his casting and increase his focus. This was his favorite offensive configuration, simple but reliable, familiar to him through years of training and use. It would have been a practical arrangement to give to anyone, save for the inclusion of Gravity, which was exclusive only to highly-trained casters and to SOLDIERs First Class. 

Sephiroth buckled it around his middle, the leather straps long enough to encircle him thrice. It hung stylishly off-center to the right of his waist, the feather charms and their materia clinking faintly when he took a step toward Clara. He lifted his head to look at her, and she stared back, a small smile crossing features when their eyes locked. 

She knew, Sephiroth realized. She had always known, right from the beginning. Yet, for the half a year that they had been together—argued, thrown shade, and kiki’d in the dressing room—Clara had always treated him as Argenta Rhodea. 

“Thank you,” Sephiroth said simply.

Clara’s grin widened, and she nodded once in acknowledgement, the dip of her chin almost imperceptible. She then snapped to attention, straightening as she executed the standard Shinra Public Security Division salute. 

“Specialist Cloud Strife of Regiment X, reporting for duty, sir.”

Sephiroth smiled, exhaling softly. He was not surprised that Clara, with that body, was military, and somehow even less that she was one of the fifty assigned to SOLDIER support. It was as if the fates had decreed that he would never be free of Clara Skye now that he had met her, not as Argenta Rhodea, and not as Sephiroth either. He resigned himself to this unlikely coincidence, nothing short of a stroke of fate, finding it strangely reassuring to have Clara accompanying him here as well. 

“Supporting fire, Specialist," Sephiroth ordered. 

“Yes, sir!”

Sephiroth tossed Zack’s Fire materia back to him. They turned to face the Hell House as a trio, with Cloud in the stands, the sound of his cocked shotgun echoing throughout the arena. 

“The Hell House shifts its elemental alignment,” Sephiroth instructed, “so hit it with the opposite.”

“Roger,” Zack replied.

Alight with maddened rage and sizzling with ozone, the Hell House tore across the ring at them, a gout of flame pouring out of its rear exhaust. Two spells hit it at once, a bolt of Thundaga and the purple aura of Gravity, spinning out a dark void. Both stopped the Hell House in its tracks, stunning the chimeric monstrosity enough that Cloud could hammer it with his shotgun, leaden slugs boring holes into its weathered wooden beams.

The Hell House buckled beneath Gravity, its timber groaning as Sephiroth intensified the magic. Its arms squished against its sides, pulled straight toward the ground, where Sephiroth had laid the core of the spell. It fought to escape, rocking back and forth on its edges, but it was caught fast. It charged up its rockets, and though Sephiroth drew more power, the Hell House released a burst of energy and managed to spring free, erecting a protective barrier around itself and launching into the air, far above the highest seats in the stands. The Hell House soared above the arena, its engines spitting flame, bombarding them with blazing chairs, bookcases, and splintered tables, all trailing smoke.

“Whoa, incoming!” Zack exclaimed.

Sephiroth cast several small Blizzard spells in rapid succession, crackling ice forming mid-flight, each a spear that knocked the Hell House’s missiles off trajectory, so they smashed instead into empty concrete. He scanned the stands for Cloud hurriedly, finding a small figure taking cover, scurrying quickly beneath a bench. 

They had to wait for the Hell House to expend its spluttering fury, for Sephiroth feared that a mid-air Gravity would take the bleachers with it and put Cloud in danger. He continued shooting down the projectiles, until the Hell House ran out of whatever powered it, and it crashed again to the floor, spinning out of control and skidding on the concrete as its shimmering barrier finally fizzled.

Sephiroth unleashed another Gravity to pin it in place. “Cast Blizzaga!” Sephiroth shouted, seeing flames lick the underside of the window panes as it changed elemental affinity again. 

“I don’t have Ice equipped!” Zack yelled back.

“What basic bitch doesn’t have Ice materia?”

“At least I’ve got Wind!”

Sephiroth had to cut the flow of magic to Gravity, letting it dwindle and fade, so he could gather it for another round of ice. He froze its feet to the floor, iced over its joints, before building the glacier around the Hell House, holding it still for long enough that Cloud could reload his shotgun and Zack could charge in with the Buster Sword just as the iceberg shattered. 

The blade now began to sink deep into the wood with Zack’s every swing, each strike echoing in the hollows of the Hell House’s interior. Sephiroth saw an arm reach forward to open its front door. A deep hum reverberated through the air, resonating in their bones as it sought to suction everything near it into its bowels. Zack managed to jam the Buster between a crack in the side of the Hell House and gamely hold on, but his grip was slipping on the sword's straight hilt.

“Frag out!” cried Cloud’s voice from the stands.

Two grenades flew from overhead, and were quickly sucked into the Hell House’s vortex. It slammed the door shut, and its windows frosted over. Two Firaga’s hit it at once just as the grenades exploded, twin pillars of fire meeting in and melding into an inferno, so blistering that the Hell House’s wood finally caught aflame and began to consume, its timber blackening with the heat. The stench of caustic smoke assaulted Sephiroth’s nostrils. The Hell House groaned and quivered, arms reaching toward them, a steel tortoise with a flaming shell. Its wood fell away into cinders, revealing a twisted metal skeleton beneath. Cloud shifted his aim to the Hell House’s chrome skull, but even the leaden slugs couldn’t penetrate the steel plating of its head. Zack charged forward, the Buster Sword aloft. He leapt high and plunged his sword down as he dropped, thrusting deep into the Hell House’s skull. 

Sephiroth backed away warily. The Buster Sword had pierced its circuits, cutting off the Hell House's control of its appendages. It shuddered and then went slack as Zack landed back on the floor, but not before it managed to fling one final round of shrapnel in all directions. Sephiroth spread his hands, quickly summoning the power of his Barrier, not even flinching as it flickered into existence just in time. He spread the magic out as widely as he could, until it enveloped the entire breadth of the ring. Metal shards pinged harmlessly away from the three of them.

The Hell House lay still and silent, embers still smoking, its steel bones sparking weakly, but it did not move. They waited for long seconds, almost expecting the creature to rear up, as an unkillable, immortal demon, but the glow in its alloyed joists and steel beams finally began to dim. Sephiroth dropped his hands, and the barrier dissolved. All three of them heaved a sigh of relief, as they finally lowered their guard.

“Holy shit, I almost died fighting a house,” said Zack. He gazed at the charred remains of their foe, and turned to Sephiroth. “And you just come and win a fight in your underwear like it’s easy.”

Sephiroth shot him a sideways smile. “That’s why I’m The Silver General, Zack, and you’re just Captain.”

Zack snorted. “Fucking hell.” He gave Sephiroth another look over. “Nice hair, by the way. It’s barely even out of place.”

“Thanks. It’s all natural.” Sephiroth preened, tossing his limp curls over his shoulder. As nice as his wigs were, they were not as durable as his real hair.

“Uh huh,” Zack chuckled. They regarded each other for a moment, as if they might have just completed any old field mission they’d been assigned to.

“We better get out of here,” Sephiroth advised. He didn’t feel like chatting in the empty Coliseum with the smouldering corpse of Don Corneo’s prized pet. The ball was supposed to be the alibi for Corneo and his entourage, so they could pass off Zack's murder as an accident. There was no telling when they’d be back. 

“Yeah,” Zack muttered.

Sephiroth turned to Cloud. “Specialist Strife.”

“Yes, sir!” Cloud ran back to the railing, still toting his shotgun. He had fared less well in the fight, his wig was singed, he had one braid missing, and the knees of his tights were torn. There was soot smeared across his nose, but his eyes shone with the elation of victory. Sephiroth did not know whether to thank Cloud, or commend him on his bravery. There were many questions Sephiroth wanted to ask him, but he put them aside for now. 

“Well done,” Sephiroth said, unable to suppress a fond smile in response to Cloud's grin. “We’re going back up to the lobby. Meet us there.”

“Yes, sir!” 

Sephiroth gathered the remnants of the sheer robe he had shed at the beginning of the battle, and he and Zack made their way to the elevator. They were relieved there was no sign of anyone as they walked in, and it began the long ascent back to the entrance. He noticed Zack standing beside him slightly awkwardly, and Zack’s eyes sliding in his direction before looking away guiltily.

“You can look as much as you want,” Sephiroth said with a small sigh. “I’m not going to report you to HR for sexual harassment.”

Permission received, Zack peered at him unabashedly in fascination. He kept blinking when his gaze alighted on Sephiroth’s chest. The illusion of cleavage painted there was somewhat smeared from the battle, but shadows and highlights still looked real, even this close. 

“I’m just...really amazed.” said Zack, with awe.

“At what?”

“That you can run and fight dressed like this.”

“It just takes practice,” Sephiroth replied. 

“The fighting part though?”

“No, not that,” he admitted. “But it’s not that far from dancing.”

“You can dance?” 

“It’s a part of my show.”

“That you headline.”

“Yes.” 

“How long have you been doing this?” Zack asked.

“Five years,” replied Sephiroth. "Ten, if you just count the drag." 

Zack whistled, and folded his arms across his chest. He met Sephiroth’s gaze, looking hurt. “You know, I wish you’d told me earlier, instead of hiding...her. Hiding you. This whole other side of you.”

“I’ve been hiding her from everybody,” Sephiroth explained. “Except Genesis and Angeal.”

“And Cloud.”

Sephiroth’s thoughts flitted back to Clara. How had she known? When had she figured it out? And if she knew, who else knew? He ought to be concerned, but if Clara had known from the beginning, and they'd met more than six months ago, the fact that nothing had happened meant that he could trust Clara Skye. And by extension, Cloud Strife.

“I only know Clara,” he said quietly. “I don’t know Cloud.”

Zack looked at him quizzically. “Well, he’s with us now, so I guess you’re gonna, real soon.”

Sephiroth fell silent, pondering what he should do about that, when the elevator reached ground level. Cloud met them as the doors slid open. 

“There’s a small crowd outside the Coliseum, sir,” he reported. “I suggest we take the back door out.”

Sephiroth agreed. Don Corneo would be loath to let this humiliation slide—the defeat of his most precious pet and not a gil of profit made from the battle. He would have to, because Shinra was an adversary that not even the Don could afford to tussle with. He would be looking for a scapegoat, and if no external targets could be found, he would have to turn on his own men. And that was exactly what Sephiroth had to ensure happened. He and Cloud would have to return to the Honeybee Inn and pretend they had been there the entire time to forestall the Don’s suspicions. He hoped someone at the ball was still soaking Corneo and his lackeys in drink. 

They slipped out of a staff entrance from the Coliseum, and took the back alleys to the Honeybee, Sephiroth leading them through the narrow, labyrinthine passages that wound around the district to avoid being spotted by anyone else. The rear of the Honeybee Inn looked just like any other Wall Market establishment, a large dumpster beside the door blocking off a large part of their passage. 

“You know, I never thought I’d ever be going into the Honeybee for the first time through the back door,” Zack mused.

Cloud snickered. “There’s a first time through the back for everyone.”

Sephiroth made a mild noise of exasperation at the immaturity of the both of them. They strode through the Honeybee’s storage areas before winding their way to the backstage corridors and upstairs to the House of Rhodea dressing room. 

“Wow, this is impressive,” said Zack, marveling at the opulent red carpeting and the mirror stretching the length of the room. He spotted the divan off to one side. “Do you mind?” he asked, gratefully sitting himself down before waiting for an answer. 

Sephiroth and Cloud went to their table, touched up their makeup and changed their wigs. Sephiroth lent her a golden blonde wig, long and loose, while he chose something tightly curled and upswept for himself. Clara’s hose was ripped, so she would have to do with one of Argenta’s spares, which were serviceable, if slightly loose. There were scorch marks on her nightshift, so she would have to go out in her bra and underwear. Sephiroth let her borrow a white satin robe that she could wear open. 

At first, Sephiroth thought that Zack was politely averting his eyes while they changed, as if they hadn’t all experienced military showers, but when he merely grunted to the instruction, “Wait here,” he realized that Zack was just resting. 

He and Clara looked each other over, making sure there was no trace of their fight in the Coliseum, and then headed back downstairs. The ball was still going strong. There were more people on the dance floor this time of night, but Don Corneo and his entourage were already on their way out of the theatre. They staggered down the carpet, the Don’s weight supported between Scotch and Kotch, who were just as drunk as he was. 

“Argenta!” The Don slurred when she and Clara walked up to him. “Where’ve y’been?”

Argenta smiled at him. “I’ve been here all along, don’t you remember?” she asked sweetly. 

Don Corneo frowned in confusion. 

“We had so many drinks with you, both Clara and I,” Argenta said. She took the Don’s chin between her fingers, and he softened immediately into a lascivious smile. He tried to lean forward to kiss her, any part of her he could reach, but he was so drunk he only managed to bob his head and stumble. “I’m hurt you don’t remember,” Argenta continued. “Maybe next time we’ll have a better time, won't we?”

Then she let the Don go with a gentle shove, and he careened toward the entrance. Argenta did not think it was likely that the Don would remember to check the Coliseum on the way home. She wiped her fingers on the silken dressing gown she had slipped on, wiping the dampness of Corneo’s sweat from her skin.

“Will that be enough to convince him?” Clara asked quietly, when they had gone out of earshot.

“It will have to be,” Argenta replied, listening to the faint sounds of the Don and his lackeys almost tripping down the front steps. "I'm sure that Andi can help jog his memory if he’s confused." She stopped a passing Honeygirl and asked her to inform Andrea that she and Clara would be departing, and to thank him for his help. 

They went back to the dressing room to find Zack nodding off, propped up against pillows. He had to be hauled to his feet before he roused. 

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Sephiroth said. Zack looked vaguely grateful that he wouldn’t have to haul ass on public transport all the way back up to the plate. Sephiroth turned to Cloud, who had the most hopeful look he had ever seen on a man’s face. “You too,” he added. 

Cloud broke out in a grin, and the light in it made Sephiroth’s breath catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks go again to my beta, [GhostofTasselhoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff), for spending so much time with me hammering out the details of this chapter’s events, and including all the plot that lead up to it. Beta-ing this fic is no small project, and I am so grateful for her time.
> 
> Thank you also [Kitsunebaba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsunebaba/), who has drawn an amazing [fanart of Clara in her naughty nightie with the shotgun and extra ammo slung around her shoulders](https://kitsunebaba.tumblr.com/post/641244995420094464/specialist-cloud-strife-of-regiment-x-reporting). Please give this perfect piece some love on Tumblr!


	28. Midnight City

“You actually own a classic Shinra La Sarthe?!” Zack exclaimed as they debarked from the chocobo carriage. The coachman tipped his hat at them, and Argenta acknowledged it in thanks before their transport trundled off again. 

The car was exactly how it looked in the Shinra Road Simulator, one of the classic models and dark as night, the glossy paint job reflecting the dull lights overhead. Sephiroth shrugged and gestured at the rest of the cars in the small parking lot. They were all vehicles of ultimate luxury, out of reach of the ordinary Midgar citizen. 

“A normal car would be out of place here,” Sephiroth said, as if that were the only explanation needed. He opened the doors.

Zack called shotgun first, which relegated Cloud to the backseat. It was just as well, because he didn’t want to get puke all over Sephiroth’s dashboard. They piled in, and Sephiroth fired up the engine, and pulled away. 

The Corkscrew Tunnel wrapped around Midgar’s central pillar, and was the only route between the undercity and the plate above. Ordinary residents were restricted to taking the trains during the hours of service if they needed to travel between the topside and the slums, but for those wealthy citizens with the means to afford the tolls, there was a parallel level of road atop of the train tunnel, accessible at all hours of the day and night, colloquially called the Executive's Tunnel. It was also used by the PSD to move personnel in emergencies, but was otherwise the main transit the well heeled used to shuttle themselves to and from Wall Market, without having to mingle with the great, unwashed masses. Neither Cloud nor Zack had ever taken this road. The tunnel was well lit, walls of smooth concrete replete with the occasional mural to break up the monotony of the gently sloping journey to the plate. 

So this was how Argenta transported herself to Wall Market, Cloud thought. The rumble of the engine and the passing of the lights had a hypnotic effect, and Cloud felt his eyelids growing heavy despite the excitement and adrenaline coursing through his blood from earlier in the night. His apprehension over Sephiroth’s feelings about his deception also faded. He knew he should have found an earlier opportunity to confess to Argenta everything he knew. Though the look that had passed between them when he’d saluted and reported for duty in the Coliseum had been one of understanding, it still left too much unsaid between them. Cloud wanted to explain the whys and wherefores, but now was not the right time, with Zack in the passenger’s seat. He did not think he would ever get to sleep tonight if he didn’t have the chance to talk to Sephiroth. 

They emerged finally onto the Sector 0 ring road. It was late enough at night that the traffic had dwindled down to almost nothing. The SOLDIER barracks were in Sector 7, very close to the center of the city, so that’s where Sephiroth went first, stopping his car outside of the compound. He couldn’t pull in, because he was still in drag. 

“Thanks for the ride,” Zack said as he heaved himself out of the seat. “I’m gonna hold you to having drinks soon.”

“Sure,” Sephiroth replied. “My place tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You better,” replied Zack with a crooked smile. He shut the door, but not before meeting Sephiroth’s gaze, a rare serious expression on his face. “Thanks for everything.”

“Goodnight, Zack.”

"See ya later."

Cloud watched as Zack sauntered off back into barracks, the silence thick between him and Sephiroth, even long after Zack disappeared indoors. Sephiroth was the first to break it. 

“Do you want to talk or go home?”

“I want to talk,” Cloud replied, a tremor to his voice. 

“I’m not asking as your superior officer. I’m asking as your...friend.”

“I want to talk,” Cloud repeated, more firmly this time. 

“All right. I need to get out of drag, so we’re going to my place.”

Cloud nodded, grateful that he always packed his street clothes with him, that he had that luxury. He could ride the train down to the undercity with a small suitcase and nobody would care, because he was a nobody himself. Sephiroth couldn’t take the trains, there would be too many stares, too many people asking for his autograph and trying to sneak photos of him on their phones. Cloud was free to be Clara Skye whenever he wanted, but Sephiroth was not afforded the same with Argenta Rhodea. 

“That’s fine, if I can borrow your shower too.”

“Of course.”

Cloud crawled out of the backseat and took his place beside Sephiroth in the passenger’s seat. He stared at the sector passing by, Midgar’s midnight lights nothing but a reflection in the tinted windows. If he concentrated on them, he almost didn’t feel sick. It was only a short drive to Sephiroth’s apartment complex, a massive, modern tower of concrete and glass. It was clear that only important people lived here—there was a gated garage and everything. 

He followed Sephiroth when they got out of the car, trying not to marvel at the other cars in the parking lot, Sephiroth’s classic La Sarthe not even close to the most expensive vehicle there. The view of the city was breathtaking in the glass elevator shaft, even though Sector 7 was mainly a residential, sleepy suburb. 

Both his and Sephiroth’s heels clicked loudly on the marble floors as they made their way down the corridor to his front door on the fifteenth floor. Cloud had the feeling that Sephiroth enjoyed the sound, his hips swaying from side to side as he stomped down the empty hallway as if it were a fashion runway. 

Sephiroth kicked his shoes off as soon as the front door closed behind them, that little act bringing a smile to Cloud’s face, as he too left his heels in the entryway. Sephiroth left him sitting on the couch in the living room while he went to peel himself out of drag and have a shower. Cloud looked about while he waited. 

Sephiroth’s living room was spartan and minimal, the walls white, the sofa black leather with chrome accents. The decor looked like he’d lifted it entirely out of a furniture catalog. There were hardly any spices on display on the kitchen counter, and the dish drying rack was empty. He didn’t appear to be much of a cook. There was one other door in the apartment, so he went and peered inside, since the door was ajar. 

The room contained all of Argenta’s things, tucked neatly away from the rest of Sephiroth’s life, to keep up appearances, while Cloud had all of Clara’s belongings strewn over his room, her wigs, shoes, and clothes mingling with his own. It was because he only had the one room, but even so, he felt an inexplicable sadness that Argenta was relegated to a different place than Sephiroth himself occupied. Did he prefer it that way, Cloud wondered, or was he forced by circumstance, by his public stature, and the overbearing influence of Shinra in his life? Cloud was still pondering this, standing on the threshold of Argenta’s chamber, when Sephiroth emerged from the shower. 

He was wearing only a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, and another around his hair. His torso was bared, revealing chiseled shoulders, his pecs and abdominals cut in sharp relief, his body unmistakably masculine, so different in contrast to Argenta’s soft femininity. It was the first time that Cloud had ever seen Sephiroth this undressed, even counting Argenta’s costume changes between performances. 

Sephiroth went and rummaged in a closet, and tossed Cloud a spare towel. “Hurry up,” Sephiroth prompted, and Cloud belatedly realized he was staring. He scurried quickly into the bathroom, clutching his towel to his chest, and turned the water in the shower down to its very coldest as punishment for his licentious thoughts. 

When Cloud came out of the shower, his skin prickling from the water he’d subjected himself to, Sephiroth was dressed already. He was clad in a simple black button down shirt, paired with dark jeans that clung to his waist and thighs in ways that Cloud told himself he ought not to think about in the presence of the man himself. Cloud could not feel more uncomfortable in his own clothes. Having shed the skin of Clara Skye, he was forced to confront Sephiroth as himself, as Cloud Stride. They were two complete strangers to each other. 

“Ready?” Sephiroth asked. His voice was neutral, impassive. Was he angry? What was he feeling? Cloud couldn’t tell, but he nodded nonetheless. He had no choice now but to submit himself to the consequences of his choices.

They went back to the door, where Sephiroth pocketed his keys and stepped into a pair of ankle boots. He led Cloud back out the door and locked it behind him. 

“Where are we going?” Cloud asked. 

Sephiroth pointed up. “The roof. I’m not in the mood to drive us anywhere else.”

The breeze over Midgar was crisp as the entrance to the roof was pushed open. They were more than fifteen floors above Sector 7, an impressive vista opening as Cloud followed Sephiroth past the patio chairs and tables that were arrayed for the tower’s residents. Sephiroth led him to the edge of the building, and the lights of the city glittered before them, roads leading radially to the imposing bulk of Shinra HQ rising from Midgar’s center. The view here wasn’t quite as impressive as that from Skyview Hall, but here there was no glass between them and the night air, and Cloud could smell the city as the wind whipped at his damp spikes. He stood beside Sephiroth, unable to meet his eyes, gazing over Midgar instead, trying to think of what to say and how to begin. 

“How long—”

“I want to—” 

They both started at the same time, and then stopped. Cloud gestured for Sephiroth to speak first. 

“How long have you known?”

Cloud took a deep breath. “About a year,” he replied, when he exhaled. They hadn’t even met then. 

Sephiroth’s features didn’t change, save for a small crease appearing between his brows. It was such a pedestrian expression of consternation, he hadn’t expected it of Sephiroth. Then he realized how silly that thought was—of course Sephiroth had normal feelings, just like any other person. 

“Do you remember freezing a couple of thugs in Wall Market who were mugging two guys? It was on the night you debuted your Shiva look.”

“I do,” Sephiroth replied. 

“Do you remember what you said?”

Sephiroth shook his head.

“You said, ‘Go, before more of them come.’” Those six words used to echo in Cloud's mind, in the silence of his thoughts, in his dreams. It was strange for him to speak them aloud, and hear them in his own voice. “You said the same thing to me when you rescued that band of recruits from the Sweepers in the Sector 8 attack.”

“You were there too?”

“That was my final assessment. I thought I was gonna die, until you showed up.”

Sephiroth muttered a curse under his breath. Cloud didn’t know whether it was directed at himself, Genesis, for the fates that had enacted that one-in-a-million coincidence. 

Cloud was ready to say it now. All the months of waiting had finally brought him to the perfect moment. “Thank you for saving my life twice,” he said, feeling his eyes prickling with emotion. “And for everything else you’ve done since.”

Sephiroth turned toward him, his irises glowing emerald in the darkness, his vertical slitted pupils strangely compelling this close. There was nobody else in the world with a gaze as bright and piercing, not even Argenta. He looked otherworldly, strands of his damp silver hair stirring in the faint breeze. Cloud had expected a flash of anger, or at least accusation, but his eyes were warm, before he ripped his gaze away from Cloud so he could look back over Midgar, the city he’d fought so hard to protect. 

“You’re welcome.”

Cloud let out a breath, knowing then that Sephiroth wouldn’t hate him for his lie of omission. Exhaustion threatened to envelop him, after all that had happened that night, but Cloud refused to surrender, determined to stand beside Sephiroth. He would stay and watch the sun rise if Sephiroth required it of him. “I knew, when I auditioned for Andrea,” Cloud continued. “And when I came to open for you the first time.” 

“Why me?”

“I was at the Modeoheim mission.”

There was an audible rasp as Sephiroth sucked in a breath. Cloud’s arm started forward, but he paused and let it fall to his side. He had no right to Sephiroth’s grief, to know what he was thinking of when he got that distant look in his eyes. He couldn’t tell Sephiroth that he understood, because he didn’t, but he had at least told Sephiroth that he knew what had happened, even if he had not witnessed either in their final moments.

“So, I know all about it,” Cloud said.

“You knew what that performance was supposed to be.”

“It was a glorious, heartwrenching send off.”

Sephiroth turned his gaze back on Cloud, and Cloud met it, bracing for a question that never came. It was cold on the roof in the middle of the night, his skin prickling all over again with goosebumps. If Sephiroth had any further questions to ask, he decided they weren’t important enough. 

“I’m glad I got to meet Clara.”

Cloud smiled. “Don’t say that in the past tense. I’m going to kick up the hugest fuss with Andi if you try to kick me out of your show.”

“Oh?” Sephiroth’s eyebrows rose. He took a step closer to Cloud and smirked down at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Clara Skye.”

“You should be,” Cloud replied, an edge of defiance in his voice.

“What are you planning to do?” Sephiroth asked, so close that Cloud imagined he could feel the heat of his body, or perhaps that was Cloud’s heating up himself. 

He had the urge to wrap his arms around Sephiroth and kiss him, but the potency of that image—the prospect of that sensation, his heat and passion and longing for Sephiroth felt and returned—frightened him. Sephiroth was beautiful with his wet hair, his luminous eyes, his lashes, even without mascara, were alluringly long, silver filaments catching the glow of the mako-powered city lights. No, the desire he saw reflected there must be his own projection. Despite all the time they had spent together, Cloud had to remind himself that he and Sephiroth did not know each other, even as another part of him insisted that Argenta and Sephiroth were the same person. Cloud yanked himself back from that precipice of possibility, unwilling to bear the burden of another impetuous, ill-considered choice. 

Cloud laughed instead, diffusing the tension between them. “I dunno,” he said, shying away from the intensity of Sephiroth’s gaze. “I just said that because it sounded cool.”

Sephiroth snorted softly. 

Cloud knew he should take a step back and put some distance between them, but his traitorous desires were unwilling. Sephiroth didn’t move either. 

They left the conversation there, passing a few silent minutes on the roof before Sephiroth turned away. Once back inside, without the wind and without the view, Cloud felt himself begin to crash, the adrenaline from the Hell House battle long metabolized. Sephiroth let him sleep on the couch, and Cloud barely registered the blanket and pillow handed to him before he curled himself on top of the proffered bedding, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Zack roused early on Monday morning, because he was supposed to be leading the joint exercises between Regiment X and the Third Class SOLDIERs. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, because he’d been up late at Sephiroth’s, impressed by how clean and tidy it was, and how many wigs and dresses he had stored in his spare room, which was apparently only half of Argenta’s closet. He’d tried to ask questions without making it an interrogation—he just wanted to know, and wanted to understand, so he could support Sephiroth and not inadvertently fuck something up. Sephiroth had also been trying to overcome his inherent defensiveness about his drag for most of the night, and Zack couldn’t blame him for that. The man had been raised by Shinra—all he’d ever been told was that his parents had met their end in a horrible accident, and the company had taken their son on, rather than send him to an orphanage. Sephiroth had been shoved into the spotlight at a young age, even Zack remembered when he’d first seen Sephiroth on the news all the way in remote Gongaga, a young boy not much older than himself, already a lieutenant in the military, a smart fighter and a tactical genius. Zack couldn’t imagine Shinra being kind enough to allow Sephiroth any other freedom than to explore the military prowess they’d trained him for. So of course Sephiroth was defensive about his identity. Argenta Rhodea was the one thing the poor guy had that was his own. 

Zack could hardly conceive of what it was like to be him, to be both man and woman, to feel like both extremes and also everything in between. It couldn’t have been easy for him to create Argenta that first time, and decide he needed to inhabit her, but she was an important enough part of him to risk everything he had. Now Zack was in on the secret too, only the third person in SOLDIER to know besides Genesis and Angeal. His memory flickered back to when he and Angeal had last been together in Midgar, when Argenta’s chocobo carriage had rolled past them in the distance. He recalled Angeal’s expression, a mix of nostalgia and regret. He hadn’t understood it then, and he didn’t fully understand it now, but Angeal had chosen to go to his death without ever saying goodbye to Sephiroth. What a colossal bastard. 

He supposed the silver lining to all of that was that Sephiroth had been spared having to witness the death of his two longest friends. The hand that had struck Angeal down hadn’t been Sephiroth’s. The thought offered Zack little solace, because he’d been the one Angeal had chosen to do the deed instead. Though time would help the wound scar over, it would never fully heal, no matter how wide a smile he put on his face. 

The creak of Zack’s gloves tightening around the hilt of the Buster Sword brought him back from his reverie to the artificial environment of Training Room 3. A knock on the glass door diverted his attention. It was Kunsel, up early too to participate in the exercise. 

“I'm amazed you're awake,” Kunsel remarked, as the door slid aside to let him in. 

Zach recalled that Kunsel was one of Argenta’s fans, and wondered if he knew who she was. He had to figure out a way to ask without giving anything away. 

“Had a hell of a weekend,” Zack replied smoothly, with a disarming grin. 

“That’s what you usually say when you stagger in late with a hangover.”

“Pretty sure Major Varma would kill me if I missed the first morning of joint exercises.”

Kunsel’s brows rose slightly. Only then did it occur to Zack that he’d just implied he was more afraid of Varma than he was of Sephiroth, their real commanding officer. 

“You got a couple of minutes to spar?” Zack asked quickly, redirecting Kunsel from his slight misstep. 

“Against that thing?” Kunsel cocked his head at the Buster.

“What, you scared?”

“Naw,” Kunsel snorted, drawing his broadsword, which looked like a child’s toy beside the size of Zack’s weapon. “You can’t swing that thing nearly quick enough to catch me.”

They clashed, or rather, Kunsel rushed in close. The only way to counter the Buster Sword was to be close enough that Zack couldn’t use it, but Zack fought him deftly with punches and kicks instead, forcing Kunsel to block or dodge, until Zack could use his sword again. They repeated that—Kunsel sneaking in and Zack beating him off, until Sam Njeri showed up and snapped at them to get moving. Zack technically outranked her, since he was First Class, but he’d known Sam long enough to know he ought to do what she told him to. 

To his surprise, as he gathered in the courtyard with the rest of the Third Class SOLDIERs and Regiment X, he saw Sephiroth standing before them. He didn’t normally come to these functions. The morning sun glinted off his silver hair and his white pauldrons, polished until they were gleaming. Zack recognized the belt around his waist as not his usual functional buckle, but the ornate feathered one that Cloud had thrown at Argenta in the Coliseum. It hung rakishly right of center with his materia slotted into it, an oddly stylish addition to his dark ensemble, a piece of Argenta Rhodea that he wore as naturally as his own armor. A slow smile crept onto Zack’s face as he took his place beside his friend.

“At ease,” Sephiroth said, once everyone assembled. PSD and SOLDIER alike took a step to the left and dropped their salutes. 

“Today marks the beginning of our joint exercises,” Sephiroth began. “The purpose of these is for SOLDIER and PSD to learn how to work and how to operate efficiently, together. Trust on the battlefield is paramount, and will decide whether we live or die, and whether we turn the tide.”

Zack watched his commander, and watched the Third Class SOLDIERs and Regiment X stand a little straighter when Sephiroth spoke. Dammit, he was a good public speaker too. Zack experienced a small pang of jealousy. Sephiroth ought to stop hoarding all the talent for himself and let other people have some too. 

Sephiroth paused for a moment, and Zack thought that maybe he’d forgotten his speech for a second, until he saw that Cloud Strife was standing in the front row. Regiment X had their helmets on, but Zack recognized Cloud, and he was sure now that Sephiroth did too, since that’s where he was looking. Sephiroth’s gaze slid away, and he continued as if he’d never paused. 

“We come from different backgrounds, but no one part is less essential to the whole. Let us be stronger than each individual can be alone. This is how we won the war in Wutai, and we can do it again on our daily missions. I expect the best from each and every one of you. Do you each make this pledge?”

“Yes, sir!” SOLDIER and infantry voices joined in unison. 

Sephiroth nodded, satisfied, and then handed over to Zack, who gave a version of Angeal’s old speech, honor, dreams, all that inspiring stuff. Afterward, the SOLDIERs and infantry split up into smaller teams, led by the Seconds. They all trooped back inside to the training rooms. Zack watched as Sephiroth observed the proceedings, hovering by the upstairs windows in Training Room Alpha, his gaze ever turned in one direction, at whatever group Cloud Strife was assigned to. He had been placed together with Roche, one of the few who got along with him, and Sierra Qvist.

“You seem to be taking an unusual interest in the training,” Zack remarked. 

“Is that odd?”

“I’d say so.”

Sephiroth turned to regard him. 

“Nice belt, by the way,” Zack said, before Sephiroth could question him further. “It looks fetching on you.”

“It feels good to have a piece of...her, with me,” Sephiroth said. 

“It should,” Zack agreed. “She’s an important part of you.”

Sephiroth’s expression was unreadable, but Zack thought he caught relief in Sephiroth’s gaze. Perhaps he was grateful to have another person he could share himself with. 

“You paid for that, right?”

“Of course.” Sephiroth scoffed, but then paused. “I think Andi paid for it.”

“So you haven’t sent anybody any money?” asked Zack. 

“Clara—Cloud, I mean—threw it at me.”

“And you just kept it.”

“I highly doubt he shoplifted a materia shop,” Sephiroth replied, though there was doubt in his voice. 

“That’s a stolen belt, my friend.”

“Shit.”

“You didn’t take the materia too, did you?”

“I left that in the dressing room before we left,” said Sephiroth with slight offense. “You were asleep so you didn’t notice.”

“Uh huh,” said Zack, enjoying a rare chance at giving Sephiroth a good ribbing, instead of the other way around. “You’re totally gonna find a second set of materia in your office later.”

“I suppose if I do, it’s Cloud’s problem and not mine.”

Zack noticed his friend’s gaze unconsciously return to the training room, and he made a mental note to bring this up to Aerith the next time he went down to the Sector 5 slums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who know me in real life know that I love cars. If anybody’s wondering what the Shinra La Sarthe is supposed to look like, I picture it as a black version of the [Ferrari 250 GTO](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferrari_250_GTO).The name of the model, La Sarthe, is a reference to [the circuit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circuit_de_la_Sarthe) on which the annual endurance race, the 24 Hours of Le Mans, takes place.


	29. This Quiet Yet Flammable World

It was rough terrain outside of the city, dust rising in the wake of their transport vehicles as they traversed the barren, cracked earth, tracking a flock of Ahrimans that had been spotted by a shipping caravan earlier in the morning. It was the first real joint mission with Regiment X and SOLDIER, but it was a basic assignment, the kind that SOLDIERs Third Class used to cut their teeth on with a mentor to oversee them. Zack would probably have even let some of the more experienced Thirds, like Roman Albert, handle this by themselves, if they had a couple years of experience. But it was a good exercise to start Regiment X on as support, to allow them to demonstrate what they’d learned so far during the combined training. 

Zack thought it was a good opportunity to get out of the city for a while and stretch his legs. The weather was pleasant, the first real day of warmth after the lingering chill of winter. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the sun not too hot as it shone down upon them. Though it was a nice day for a trip outside of Midgar, the pleasant weather did not explain why Sephiroth had insisted on coming. 

There were two new Thirds, Operatives Gonzalez and Ryder, who were scared stiff by the presence of both Zack and Sephiroth a short distance away, leaning against their transport, casually observing the conduct of the mission out of eavesdropping distance. The PSD Support, Specialists Raikonnen and Harker, were not faring better, seemingly looking everywhere as they set about tracking the Ahriman flock, except for at the two First Class SOLDIERs. The only person who seemed relaxed was Cloud, though he did occasionally steal a glance in their direction, not afraid that being caught staring would result in some sort of penalty or curse.

“You’re makin’ them nervous,” Zack said quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s a sensible precaution,” Sephiroth replied mildly. “If one of the Ahriman flock turns out to be a Deathgaze instead.”

That seemed highly unlikely to Zack, people could generally tell the difference, but that possibility was why he was the one assigned to the group. It was overkill to have a First Class assigned as backup on this mission, and even more so to have two.

“Maybe I wanted to get out of the city,” Sephiroth added, defensively. 

“Uh huh,” said Zack. “Then which is it?” 

“Why can’t it be both?” 

Zack suppressed a smile. “No reason.” He folded his arms across his chest, and turned back to the combined SOLDIER and PSD team, some fifty meters away. “I think Gonzalez is actually trembling.”

“If he can’t draw his sword without shaking when I’m around, that’s something I need to know now, and not when I put him directly under my command on something critical.”

Zack made a non-committal noise and glanced skeptically in Sephiroth’s direction. 

“I’m trying to take an interest in SOLDIER. Is that so bad?” Sephiroth asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t think it’s a SOLDIER you’re interested in,” Zack replied.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“C’mon, Sephiroth. I let you bullshit me a lot, but you can’t bullshit me on this one.”

Sephiroth continued to regard him blandly. 

“You’ve got an interest in Cloud Strife.”

Sephiroth frowned. “That’s absurd.” 

Zack noticed his gaze flicker briefly to where Strife was scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. “It might be, but it’s been obvious as hell these past couple of weeks.” 

Sephiroth’s cheeks flushed a light pink, and it wasn’t out of anger. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Zack cut him off. 

“No way, you are not denying this one. It’s plain as day. You have feelings for Cloud Strife, or Clara Skye, or whatever. They’re the same damn person.”

“I hardly even know Cloud Strife,” Sephiroth said stiffly.

“But I’m sure you’d like to,” Zack said with a suggestive smirk. 

Sephiroth’s expression darkened. 

“Look, I’m not trying to make light of your feelings,” Zack said, putting his hands up. “I just think you should go for it. You deserve this for once.”

Whatever annoyance Sephiroth was about to express was shoved aside, a part of it transmuted into worry. 

“He’s under my command. It would be a breach of regulations.”

“So what?”

Sephiroth’s brows knit. “It puts the unit at risk if I place my feelings above the good of the mission.”

“You’ve got those feelings either way. You’re here, aren’t you?” Zack said, waving his hands at their surroundings. “For a flock of Ahriman. And don’t pretend that there’s no fraternizing in the military,” Zack continued. “You've been in it longer than I have. You and I both know what goes on in the tents when the lights go out.”

“The difference in our rank…”

“...is nobody’s business but yours and Cloud’s,” said Zack.

Sephiroth made a noise of frustration. “I don’t know how he feels,” he confessed, turning to the side and avoiding Cloud’s gaze when he glanced at them again. 

“The guy’s looked in our direction at least ten times now in the past two minutes. Even Aerith was subtler than that when we started dating. With signals like that, even I would bet a decent amount of money, like two hundred gil, that he likes you.”

“I think he likes Argenta Rhodea.”

“Is there really that huge of a difference?”

“Well,” Sephiroth began, but then fell silent. 

“Two hundred gil,” Zack grinned.

“You really think you’re winning,” Sephiroth snorted. 

“As sure as my last name is Fair. You’ll be the happiest man to ever lose two hundred gil.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will.” Zack turned back to watch the Thirds completely miss the pile of Ahriman droppings that would have told them which direction they were flying in. Oh boy, it was going to be a long morning. “I noticed you didn’t bother denying the feelings.”

“Are they really that obvious?”

“I’m the only person who knows both you and Cloud well enough to have made the connection so far. But if you keep pining like this, more people are gonna put two and two together.”

“The media will have a field day if they find out.”

“I don’t think that’s stopped you before,” Zack said, glancing at Sephiroth’s belt. 

“They’re going to think it’s an abuse of my power and status.”

“Let them. Do you really think that Cloud would think of it that way? Do you think that you would treat him that way?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Sephiroth let out a huff, but was otherwise quiet. The Thirds and their Regiment X support finally figured out which direction the Ahriman went in, piled onto their motorcycles, and sped off. 

Zack and Sephiroth clambered back into their all-terrain vehicle to follow after. 

“I thought it was my turn to drive,” Zack frowned, as Sephiroth put himself in the driver's seat. 

”As the highest ranking officer on this mission, I get to decide who drives,” replied Sephiroth with a smile. 

“Now that’s an abuse of power,” Zack muttered, but he obediently climbed shotgun. 

They headed off, keeping a respectable distance from the bikes. Zack surreptitiously pulled out his phone when he saw Sephiroth scanning the horizon.

Babe, it totally worked.

  
I told you so.  


Zack grinned, picturing Aerith’s grin and the warmth of her voice from just those four words.

* * *

Cloud never thought he’d find himself in the workshop. He’d always figured that SOLDIERs were the types to have others maintain their vehicles with a team of mechanics at their beck and call, but it turned out to be the opposite. Many SOLDIERs were field operatives or spent weeks on missions, meaning they’d have to maintain and repair their own vehicles in that time. After a day of chugging through the desert, Cloud's bike needed a good wash and the air filters needed changing.

He wasn’t surprised to find Roche down there tinkering with his motorcycle. He’d overheard a couple of the Thirds talking about him, saying he spent more time down there than he did his training, resentful that he got to fool around while they worked, even though he’d been in “that accident.”

Cloud was off duty after he finished with the maintenance, so instead of going back to barracks, he decided to linger. He hadn't had the opportunity to find Roche alone since Regiment X had formed a few weeks ago. It was late. 

“Hey,” Cloud said.

Roche’s motorcycle was red, painted a glaring and flamboyant, glossy crimson. It was huge, one of those classic ones with a giant chassis, not the modern, sleek chrome or the camo-colored minimalism that were PSD or SOLDIER standard. If Cloud had seen Roche’s bike during PSD training camp, he wouldn't have assumed the man was straight.

“Hey,” Roche replied, looking up from his work. “You’re still here.”

“Yup.”

“What for?”

“Just wanted to check in.” Cloud leaned against a workbench, keeping it casual. Roche was doing something with the handlebars—Cloud wasn’t too sure and didn’t bother asking. “It’s been a while.”

Roche grunted assent.

“I just wanna know how you’re doing.”

Roche straightened and spread his hands wide. He grinned at Cloud in a way that the old Roche never would have done. “About as well as when life blows a hole in your memories and you’ve decided to stop giving a shit.”

“That must be tough.”

“No fucking shit,” Roche grinned wryly. “At some point, we all gotta cut our losses, decide who we wanna be, and move on,” Roche declared, before he turned back to his work.

“You sure that’s the best way to handle things?”

Roche chuckled. “Fuck, no.”

Cloud laughed a little too, in response to Roche’s cavalier attitude. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve realized about you fuckers with memories,” Roche said, pointing a wrench in Cloud’s direction, “it’s that you have no idea what you’re doing with yourselves either.”

Cloud grinned. Roche wasn’t wrong.

“None of you assholes have your shit sorted out. So I don’t have to either,” Roche shrugged.

“Fair enough,” Cloud agreed. “So you like it here, then, in SOLDIER?”

“Probably could be worse,” Roche reasoned. “Besides, they let me ride.” He fell silent, stroking the chassis of his motorcycle. A manic gleam came into his eyes, one that Cloud remembered from their race in the simulation, last year. Whatever had happened to Roche, it hadn’t been able to erase the simple stimulus-response elicited by the joy of speeding, the road beneath his feet, the wind against his face. As different as Roche was now—louder, more direct, more brash—he was still, in all the ways that counted, the same old Roche. 

“I got a question for you, though,” Roche said suddenly, looking at Cloud, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“What?”

“We used to be friends, right?”

“Yeah, back at training camp.”

“Right. Did I ever have feelings for you?”

Cloud hesitated, his smile fading as he groped for the appropriate response.

Roche continued. “But you don’t have feelings for me.”

Cloud swallowed. Roche stared him in the eye, rooting him to the spot. The statement was so different, so much plainer than the non-answer Cloud had given him that night in Sector 8, when he’d let Roche spend the entire evening consoling him on not getting into SOLDIER, when he should have been celebrating Roche’s acceptance. Cloud took a deep breath. It was time that he gave Roche a real answer.

“I’m in love with someone else,” Cloud replied.

Roche shot Cloud a crooked smile that he recognized. “I figured as much.”

“How the hell would you figure?”

“Just because I don’t have memories, doesn't mean I don’t got eyes.”

“What does that mean?” Cloud asked.

“You have no idea how closely I’ve had to watch people since waking up. Just to relearn stuff, just figure out the most basic shit. So I watch everybody. And I've noticed there’s someone that you’re always looking at.”

Cloud snorted. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Sure, you’re not a bad looker,” Roche grinned. “The guy you keep staring at isn’t bad either.”

“I’m not—” Cloud began.

“It’s Sephiroth.”

Cloud stopped. He felt his cheeks start to flush at how boldly Roche just laid it out, a statement of fact, irrefutable and plain as day. He should try to deny it, but his protests sounded feeble, even in his head.

Roche’s grin spread even wider. “It’s okay,” he said, nonchalant. “I don’t mind being passed up for someone higher up in the chain.”

It took Cloud a moment to realize that Roche was jesting. A slow smile spread across Cloud’s face. “You’re making me look like the asshole here.”

“A change of pace from the usual, huh?”

“It’s supposed to be your best trait,” Cloud said.

“New me, new rules. Turnabout’s a bitch, ain’t it?” 

Cloud’s cheeks were still red, his heart rate slightly elevated. His stomach tightened with the thrill of the words he had held at bay for long, not even daring to whisper them to himself, in his own room, to Clara in the mirror. “I’m in love with Sephiroth,” Cloud said out loud, the words the smallest of revelations, but he spoke them as if they were magic, giving form to something he had never dared confront.

“Yeah, I know,” Roche said flatly. “You keep looking at him like you’re expecting a connection, like you know him. Do you know him?”

Cloud grimaced. “He’s seen me in drag?” he managed, all that he could really say since Sephiroth was still keeping his identity as Argenta Rhodea a secret. 

“I see,” Roche said. “He a fan of yours or something?”

Cloud’s mouth twisted at the irony of Roche’s assumption. He tried to imagine Argenta harboring the same worship for Clara as Cloud had felt for her. “He’d never admit it if he was,” Cloud said, with a lopsided smile.

Roche’s expression turned quizzical. “Okay,” he said slowly, as if he understood there was a story there, but accepted Cloud’s cagey response at face value. “What’s keeping you from asking him out, then?”

Cloud balked. “You mean, besides the fact that he’s the most senior officer in SOLDIER and he’s famous as shit?”

“Yeah. What’s keeping ya’?”

“Uh, everything,” replied Cloud.

“That's all you got to say?”

“Okay,” Cloud growled. “Fear, I guess?”

“Of him saying no, or him saying yes?”

Cloud paused and considered Roche’s question. He had a friendship with Argenta Rhodea, one he’d rescued from the edge of a knife. Cloud had spent his first month with SOLDIER with that damn PSD helmet on all the time because he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his relationship with her. He’d told himself it was because he hadn’t wanted to make Sephiroth feel threatened, but he’d also been afraid of Argenta booting him out of the dressing room door, without the chance to explain. Now that they knew each other, a different fear reared its head.

What if Sephiroth said yes and that changed everything? Their show, their banter in the dressing room, the fragile friendship they’d built? What if they broke up after a couple of weeks because it didn’t work out? It would ruin everything. Cloud had already pulled himself from the brink of something impulsive that night on the roof after the Hell House fight. He wasn’t about to go and risk everything he already had on a moonshot. Sephiroth was The Silver General, and Cloud a mere Specialist, the chasm between their strength, skill, and their station seemed too great to be overcome by mere attraction. And yet Clara Skye was a regular in Argenta’s show. She’d clawed her way to Argenta’s side, precisely because she’d wanted to be there. Perhaps Cloud Strife could do the same, he’d made it into Regiment X, after all. 

Roche watched Cloud closely as he wrestled internally with his feelings. “I betcha he’ll say yes if you ask him.”

Cloud eyed his old friend. “What makes you say that?” 

“He looks at you too. Same thing, looking for that connection, that acknowledgement. He’s way more subtle about it, though.”

“Yeah?” Cloud asked skeptically, too afraid to even nurse a spark of hope inside him. Maybe Roche was just pulling his leg. 

“Like I said, I’ve been spending months paying extra attention to what people do. Anyways, good luck, you’re gonna need it.”

“No kidding,” Cloud grumbled. He hugged his arms tighter around his middle. Even if Roche was certain that Sephiroth might harbor some feelings in return, Cloud wasn’t sure what he wanted himself. He’d thought that up until a few minutes ago he was happy enough where he was, opening for Argenta, supporting SOLDIER. He didn’t have to hope for more, certainly not for the deepest fantasies that only played out in his head when he was in bed, hard as hell and pumping his cock so fast he was chafing. In those moments, he imagined spreading his legs across Argenta’s lap and rubbing against her body, or being shoved down onto the mattress and enveloped in a curtain of silver hair. Sometimes he fancied dropping down to his knees, easing down a zipper, and reaching into leather pants. 

Cloud gave his head an unconscious shake, just a few of those images were causing heat to pool between his legs. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

“Yeah, but not too hard,” Roche joked.

“Asshole.”

“Takes one to know one.”

They both grinned wolfishly at each other.

“Hey Roche,” Cloud said, “I’m glad you’re here. You still wanna be friends?”

“With a dick like you?”

“Why not, right?” 

Roche snorted. “Dunno if we ever stopped, to be honest.”

* * *

It was long after hours that Cloud stayed in the training room on the SOLDIER floor. He’d had little contact with Sephiroth recently, every daytime hour occupied by some mission or training activity—hand-to-hand, advanced vehicle maneuvering, tactical strategy, magic. He was particularly poor at that last one, which was why Zack had told him he needed to stay late and practice. Zack was supposed to stay and supervise, but as the evening wore on, he’d decided to pop down to the undercity to hang out with his girlfriend. Cloud was supposed to tell anybody who asked that Zack was in the bathroom or getting a coffee or something innocuous to explain his absence. Just a couple of weeks ago he would have been sore about being ditched in favor of a date, but he was thankful now for the alone time, not only to practice, but because this training room was directly across from Sephiroth’s office, and he could tell from the faint light that filtered through the frosted glass doors that Sephiroth had yet to leave for the night. 

Cloud wished he’d grown up knowing how to cast, like Giselle, whose uncle had taught her. While she claimed no great control, at least she was capable, whereas Cloud could barely feel the energy he was supposed to pull through his training materia. It seemed like it would take decades of practice before he would reach the level of mastery that Sephiroth possessed. He envied the belt that he had obtained for Sephiroth that night and the precision and control it represented, hanging as naturally around Sephiroth’s waist as if it had always been a piece of his armor. 

The small flame that Cloud had begun to nurse flared suddenly. He gave a startled cry and dropped it before it singed his eyebrows and the tips of his spikes. It fizzled out as it fell, a dull dissipation of the planet’s energy that he’d managed to pull together. Cloud scowled, frustrated because he didn’t even have control over one of the most basic spells. Even Aleksandr was better than he was, and he’d started from square one too. 

“You need to concentrate on your energy distribution.”

Cloud turned to the doorway, Sephiroth entering as the glass panel slid aside. 

“Sir,” Cloud stiffened quickly, and only narrowly avoided throwing a salute. Zack had told him in private that Sephiroth didn’t like them, but the habit was hard to break, particularly since Staff Sergeant Tjell still made them do it as part of protocol. Cloud felt himself flush, partly with the shame of his incompetence at spell-casting, and partly because he was alone with Sephiroth. 

“Who’s supposed to be supervising you tonight?” Sephiroth asked. 

“Uh...Zack?”

“Ah.” Sephiroth said, as if that explained everything. He looked around, not surprised to see neither hide nor hair of Zack Fair. “He’s gone down to the undercity, hasn’t he?”

Cloud nodded. Zack had told him not to tell anyone the truth, since it would get them both in trouble, but there was no point in lying to Sephiroth if he’d already divined where Zack had snuck off to. 

Sephiroth sighed quietly. “How long have you been by yourself?” 

“Two hours?” It was closer to three, but Cloud decided it was best to round down. 

Sephiroth closed his eyes and held his breath for a few seconds. It was the same thing that Argenta Rhodea did when something unusually frustrating happened—usually something Clara had done or said—and she didn’t want to snap. 

“Is Zack also your magic instructor?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you the only one having difficulty?” 

“I’m definitely the one having the most difficulty,” Cloud admitted glumly. There were only a handful of the others in Regiment X struggling. Cloud expected Sephiroth to make a small, annoyed grunt, like Argenta would have done, but a thoughtful look came over his face instead. 

“Show me how you start.”

“O-okay,” Cloud said hesitantly. He closed his eyes, because that was how he always started. It was a habit he’d have to get rid of eventually—it was a bad idea to close his eyes in the middle of a fight every time he needed to cast a spell, but Sephiroth was also staring at him, which was making him self conscious.

The materia—a low-level Fire with too many impurities to allow a spell that would do much damage—was slotted into his bracer. He groped for it with his mind, with his energy, as he’d been instructed to. It didn’t come naturally, that little trickle that he managed to channel. It was like trying to squeeze juice from a fruit with his mind instead of his hands—awkward, slippery and completely abstract. The power came to him in fits and starts, not the smooth welling it was supposed to be, and it didn’t go into him like Zack said it would, it just flung itself everywhere until a small spark struggled to life in his palm. Cloud opened his eyes, looked at it, looked at Sephiroth, looked back at it, and then it flared and evaporated into nothing yet again. 

Cloud let out another huff of frustration. 

“You’re pulling at it too hard,” Sephiroth told him. “You’re struggling, and when you do that it restricts the flow of energy.”

Cloud opened his hands. He didn’t know how to do it differently. 

“What did Zack teach you to picture when you called on magic?”

“A roller coaster.”

“Really?”

“That...feeling right before you go over the edge,” Cloud clarified. “That anticipation as you let go.”

“Have you ever been on a roller coaster?”

Cloud shook his head. “No,” he said faintly. There were no amusement parks anywhere near Nibelheim, and his mother, as much as she loved him, had never had the money to take him traveling that far for something so frivolous. 

“Neither have I.”

Cloud’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“When would I have gone?” Sephiroth asked. “I’m surprised Zack’s been on one at all.”

Cloud grinned. “He’s from the boonies too.”

“That’s why you’re having trouble. You’re not reaching out the right way. Everyone connects to the planet’s energy differently. You need to find what works for you—a feeling, a memory, a mental image.”

“I’ve tried a lot.”

“Try more,” Sephiroth said tersely. 

Cloud would have been annoyed if anyone else had given him that response, but he felt that Sephiroth was genuinely trying to help in his own way, and Cloud was used to that type of answer from Argenta anyway. 

“How long did it take you to learn?” Cloud asked. 

“A day? It was a long time ago.”

Of course, Sephiroth had picked it up quickly. Cloud rolled his eyes a little, wondering why he’d bothered asking. 

“What do you picture when you cast?” 

“I don’t anymore,” Sephiroth said. “It’s reflexive now. You stop relying on a crutch when you’ve practiced enough. Or maybe it’s the mako in me, from SOLDIER, that makes it easier.”

“Okay, what did you used to picture then?” 

Sephiroth paused for a moment. “Night,” he replied quietly. “And whispers.”

Cloud took a second to process that answer. “I’m not sure if I’m creeped out, or what.”

“I’ve been told I was a creepy kid.”

“And which asshole said that to a child?” Cloud frowned. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sephiroth replied. 

Cloud regarded him skeptically. It was strange for the two of them to be talking this way, as casually and easily as he might have been chatting with Argenta Rhodea, even though she made it a policy never to speak about herself. She carried herself as if she were invincible, as if nothing in the world, not even the Hell House, could hurt her. Sephiroth did too, in front of the cameras, in the interviews, in front of his troops, but not here, in the training room, with the two of them alone. Cloud had detected that trace of hurt in his voice, an ache long buried, but which still smarted when exhumed.

“Any of them still around?” Cloud asked, hopefully.

“You do not have permission to hunt them down.”

Cloud made a moue. “How will you stop me?” he asked slyly.

“Practice spellcasting first, and then maybe I’ll consider telling you.”

Cloud’s mouth twisted. “How am I supposed to start?”

“Find what works for you. Some people need a dynamic memory with emotion and sound and movement, others have something still and static, and then they let the energy fill them. Try different things.”

“What if it takes a long time?”

“Then it takes a long time,” Sephiroth replied, matter-of-factly. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“You’re not going to kick me out for being slow are you?”

“I would have kicked you out of the dressing room long ago if that had been the sole criterion for expulsion.”

Cloud opened his mouth reflexively to fire off a retort, but stopped when it hit him that Sephiroth might have just confessed to wanting to keep him around, even if he was lagging behind the others. He forced himself to take a breath he’d forgotten to take, and Sephiroth averted his eyes, evidently realizing the same. The silence between them was charged, squirming, almost alive. 

Cloud evaded the discomfort between them, choosing to focus on his task. He fumbled for a memory, something that felt like magic, that felt like power, that felt like a thing he wanted to fill himself with endlessly. Cloud pictured the forests at home, the imposing silhouette of Mount Nibel in the autumn mist, his mother’s cherry pie, fresh from the oven, the smell of browned crust permeating the kitchen. He evoked the song of the birds on a summer morning outside his bedroom window, the expanse of the sky above Nibelheim at midnight, the warm red-brown eyes of Tifa Lockhart, his feelings for her faded to a pale reminiscence beside the enormity of the affection he bore for the man standing before him, and for the woman he sometimes also was. 

Argenta Rhodea was strongly impressed upon him—the spotlight on her skin, the bated silence of her audience just before she started a show, the electric charge that ran through the theatre as surely as the energy of a mako pipeline. Cloud pictured Clara beside Argenta, sharing the stage, music coursing through her veins, the rhythm of the song underscoring every beat of her heart.

“Keep it steady.”

Cloud blinked, Sephiroth’s voice tugging him from his reverie. There was a flame in the palm of his hand, not the sputtering weak candlelight of before, but an actual fire, hot and bright. 

“Do you feel it?”

Cloud nodded. He’d thought at first what was filling him had been joy and excitement, a fragment of the moment just before Clara pranced on stage, nerves falling away to elation and confidence, but it had been a different sort of energy instead, the planet’s power focused through the training materia, which transmuted it into flame.

“Whatever you’re doing, hold it. Let the feeling continue, and keep feeding it. That’s how you keep it under control.”

Cloud unfocused and sank slowly back into his imagination. Cloud inserted Clara into that first memory of Argenta, her eyes twinkling as bright as the spotlight on Argenta’s earrings as she strode across the theatre. Clara strode up the opposite aisle, as regal as Argenta was. Argenta’s gown billowed, while Clara stomped in a miniskirt up the red carpeting and onto the stage. 

“You can make it a little stronger if you let the energy build within you.”

“How?” Cloud asked.

“Let go.”

“Let go?” Cloud exclaimed.

“I know it’s counterintuitive, but let that feeling overtake you. Give into it, and let the energy come to you. Don’t be scared, it can’t burn you out.”

“Am I supposed to throw this Fire somewhere eventually?”

“We can work on your aim later,” Sephiroth replied.

“What if I burn my hand?”

“Then drop your hand. It is inconsequential to the magic. Your hand is not where the magic comes from.”

Cloud knew that, but it was difficult for him to think of the flame as being from anywhere else. It was getting hotter as it gained in strength, and Cloud grimaced as he began to feel it begin to burn the leather of his gloves. Sephiroth’s fingers alighted gently on his wrist, and pushed Cloud’s hand down slowly. To Cloud’s surprise, instead of fizzling, the flame grew. 

There was only so much the Fire spell could grow, however, constrained by the impurities in the training materia. Cloud drew as much as he could, summoning memories again of Argenta in diamonds, and inserting Clara together with her. 

“Now let it go. Dispel it.”

Instead of disappearing, the flame slowly faded, even as Cloud stopped thinking of Argenta Rhodea and turned his attention to Sephiroth’s instructions on how to shunt the excess energy back to the planet. Cloud stared at the afterimage of the spell burned into his retinas long after it dissipated. 

“Not bad.” said Sephiroth. It wasn’t glowing praise, but Cloud would take it. “Practice that every day fifteen times, and I think you’ll catch up.”

“Fifteen times?”

“If you’re afraid of hard work, don’t be supporting SOLDIER.”

Cloud snorted. He’d heard a line like that before. “Thank you,” he said, half sardonically. 

“You’re welcome,” Sephiroth replied, with equal sarcasm. “What did you picture?”

“Uh…” Cloud paused, casting about for an answer suitably vague. “Drag.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

Cloud smiled tightly, relieved that Sephiroth didn’t press the matter. A few moments passed, Cloud groping for words to say to him. They both looked off in different directions, pretending to examine some floating abstraction out of the training room’s illusory environment.

“We’re still on for Friday, right?” Cloud asked, staring at a transparent cube in the background shimmering as it turned around, unbound by gravity. 

“I’m still going.”

“Good,” Cloud nodded. “I always look forward to Fridays where we get to perform.”

“Me too,” Sephiroth said. “That’s probably obvious.”

Cloud let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Uh, hey, I wanted to ask you something. You don’t have to agree, but…” he trailed off.

“What?”

Cloud swallowed. “I was wondering if I could watch you paint.”

Sephiroth tensed, his expression tightening. He opened his mouth, about to fire off an instinctive refusal, but he paused when he realized what he was about to say. 

“Y-you don’t have to,” Cloud said quickly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

There was a slight rise to Sephiroth’s shoulders when he drew a breath. “Yes,” he said. “You can come over to my place and I’ll show you.”

“You sure?” 

“Only if you promise to practice more on your own face.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my face!” 

“No,” Sephiroth admitted, “but you could have a better face.”

Cloud mouth opened in indignation, but he couldn’t think of anything to say when he saw the small, crooked smile that Sephiroth cracked.

“Now, I also want to see a proper Fire spell by this time next Monday. So you better get practicing on that too.”

Cloud made a strangled noise of protest. 

“Goodnight, Cloud. See you on Friday.” Sephiroth turned and gave him a cheeky wave as he made his way to the exit, his silver hair swaying from side to side.


	30. Clara and Argenta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: I have changed the rating of this fic to “Explicit” because of this chapter. If you have read this far, you can probably figure out why.

Cloud was supposed to be on shift for Friday night, but he swapped with Aleksandr. That meant he had a double shift next week, but it was an exchange he was more than willing to make. He and Sephiroth couldn’t leave the building together—that would draw too much attention, so Cloud had to leave first and wait in an ill-traversed area of the underpasses surrounding HQ for Sephiroth and his ebony La Sarthe to come and pick him up. 

Tossing a duffel bag into the backseat, Cloud clambered into the passenger’s seat. He watched as the city passed by behind the tinted windows, making the sky look even darker than the already overcast day. 

“Did you know that you’re in the Shinra Vehicle Simulator?”

“You’ve seen me there?”

“Kunsel made me and Roche race there once. I saw this car in it.”

“I’m not the only man in the world with a black LaSarthe.”

“Bullshit, you hacked the code and put yourself in there.”

“Maybe I did,” replied Sephiroth, noncommittal. “Or maybe the programmers put me in there to give you all a challenge.”

“Bitch, you’re a drag queen. You put yourself in there. Don’t lie.”

“Hmph,” snorted Sephiroth imperiously, though there was no vehemence in his voice. 

They glided down Broad Avenue, and turned into the garage of Sephiroth’s complex. 

“This glass elevator isn’t exactly discreet is it?” Cloud observed, as they ascended to the fifteenth floor.

“The people who live here are the type who mind their own business,” said Sephiroth. “Better than having nosy neighbors in the residential areas.” He inclined his head toward the outer parts of the sector. 

The doors opened on Sephiroth’s floor and Cloud couldn’t help a slight blush as it occurred to him that he was going to Sephiroth’s place for a second time. The morning after the Hell House fight had passed like a dazed blur. He’d just grabbed some toast for breakfast before he ran out on his own, too overwhelmed by being at The Silver General’s apartment to be able to stay.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sephiroth said, letting Cloud in. It smelled half of leather and half of the subtle perfume of Argenta’s cosmetics. “Don’t touch anything in Argenta’s room.”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Cloud grinned. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Shower.”

“You shower before you get in drag?”

“You don’t?” Sephiroth asked with mild disapproval. 

“I shower after.”

“You’re supposed to shower before and after.”

“Maybe you do,” Cloud retorted. “What, is there like a drag queen textbook somewhere?”

“My house, my rules, darling,” Sephiroth smirked. “You are not allowed into Argenta’s room until you’ve showered.”

“Fine,” Cloud relented. “Whatever Miss Diva wants.”

“It’s basic hygiene.”

It took Sephiroth almost thirty minutes to shower, which explained why they’d had to leave the building so early in the afternoon. Cloud had flipped through every title on Sephiroth’s bookshelf, browsed his film collection, and catalogued the few items in his refrigerator before he emerged from the bathroom. And he hadn’t even washed his hair. What had been the point of the shower, then?

Cloud went to the bathroom next. He sniffed all the bottles in the shower, his spine tingling with the scent of Sephiroth’s shampoo filling the steaming room as he squeezed out a small amount onto his palm and massaged it into his hair. He finished washing as quickly as he could, not wanting Sephiroth to start painting without him.

By the time he toweled off and slung it around his hips, Sephiroth had only finished braiding his hair and pinning it up. He hardly glanced up from where he was seated in front of the mirror, his gaze slightly unfocused, lost deep either in thought or memory. 

“Does that ever bother you?” Cloud asked quietly, pulling up an empty chair beside Sephiroth’s dressing table. “Having all your hair under there.”

“It was uncomfortable in the beginning, but I’m used to it now,” Sephiroth replied. 

“You ever consider cutting it?”

“Of course not!”

Cloud grinned. He couldn’t imagine Sephiroth with short hair—maybe all of his power was tied into the length of his hair, like those mythical mermaids. He suppressed a giggle at the thought.

Cloud now understood enough of the process that Sephiroth didn’t need to narrate everything he was doing, what strokes he used for blending, where he was drawing new shadows and highlights. Even though he knew all the tricks, it still seemed as if Argenta emerged through some divine invocation, and not through the slow, precise movements of Sephiroth’s brushes, the shift of light on his cheeks, brows, and nose, a magic in and of itself. Cloud took a step back as Argenta finished, adjusting her lashes and admiring her reflection in the mirror. She turned and looked expectantly at Cloud, who felt his face suddenly heat. He quickly turned away, and fumbled around with his duffel, unpacking Clara’s cosmetics by the handful. 

“What are you doing?” Argenta asked. 

“Getting my makeup out,” Cloud said.

“You’re not painting here,” Argenta frowned. “This is my table.”

Cloud looked at the clock on the wall. It was more than two hours ago that they’d left HQ, his time with Argenta had passed as if a dream. “You’re gonna make me wait until we get down to the Honeybee?” Cloud scoffed. “I’m gonna have all of an hour before I need to go on. Move over, bitch.”

Argenta made a noise of protest when Cloud invaded her space, spreading all his products out, and laying out his brushes. She rose from her seat out of indulgence, even though she muttered darkly about being invaded and forced away from her own mirror. She went to the shelves lining her walls to pick an outfit and a wig, but Cloud caught her glancing his way out of the corner of her eye several times.

* * *

The coachman tried to disguise his astonishment when both Argenta and Clara climbed into the carriage together. He stared at Argenta for a long time, as if to ask if she were feeling alright, if she might want to give a secret signal if she was somehow being coerced into having Clara along with her. Instead, she simply smiled at him and indicated that yes, she and Clara Skye would be traveling together this evening. Finally convinced, the coach driver snapped the reins of his chocobo and they trundled off through the undercity.

“This is one fancy chocobo carriage,” Clara remarked as she looked around the interior. The furnishings were rich velvet, the floors covered by plush carpets. The cushions were generously padded on the seats, and there was even a bottle of white wine chilling and some glasses on a shelf. “Andi spoils you.”

Argenta sniffed. “I make him so much money. This is the least he can do.”

Clara felt obliged to have a drink, if only because she had never been in such a decadent transport, and that obligated Argenta to have a drink as well. They sat beside each other on the same bench, giggling as they tried not to spill their wine on their dresses while they poured, and the coach ambled over the uneven dirt paths of the slums. Deciding that half-full glasses were as much as they wanted to risk, they clinked in a toast. Clara drained her glass, wishing silently for nothing more than more time, like this, with Argenta.

“What?” Clara asked, when she drained half of the wine, and noticed Argenta eyeing her as if she had something to say. 

Argenta took a moment before she spoke, the smile fading from her face. “I wanted to ask if you’d join me for my third number tonight,” she said, with a serious expression. “I’m debuting something new, and I would like you in it.”

“Of course!” Clara exclaimed almost before Argenta finished her sentence. Performing not just in Argenta’s show, but together with her at the same time? She jumped at the opportunity, even though recruiting her en route to the Honeybee Inn was rather short notice. 

“You couldn’t have asked earlier, though?” Clara chuckled. “I’ve been staying late in the training rooms the past couple of nights. You could’ve asked any one of those times.” Argenta had probably been working up the courage to ask, but Clara was still going to give her a hard time about it. “If I trip over my heels and knock you over, you’ve got nobody but yourself to blame.”

Argenta’s expression began to darken. 

“I’m kidding, by the way,” Clara grinned. 

Argenta heaved a small sigh. 

“Except for the part where when I fall off stage, I’m definitely taking you with me.”

“This is the last time I give you a ride in my carriage,” Argenta muttered, her eyes narrowing. 

Clara kept grinning, until Argenta’s annoyance subsided. It only took a few seconds.

“I’d been working on the new performance with Miss Kelly over the summer,” Argenta explained, picking up where she’d left off. “But it got derailed by _that_ performance, and I never wanted to bring it back until now.”

“Do you think I can pick up the choreo fast enough?” Clara asked. 

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” The earnestness in Argenta’s voice made Clara flush and she lifted the glass to her lips again and looked away.

* * *

A small gasp went up from the crowd of Argenta’s fans when Clara stepped out of the carriage behind her. She was told there were those on the forums that felt about Clara the same way that she had at the beginning of their partnership—that Clara was an upstart, here to steal Argenta Rhodea’s limelight. Despite the odd, disapproving look, Clara handled herself with aplomb, as regal as befitting a queen of the House of Rhodea. They posed together for photographs, and then retreated inside to the Honeybee. 

They spent a little time touching up their makeup and lipstick, and the rest of the evening passed in a blur. Clara went on for her opener, while Andrea helped Argenta into her gown. Miss Kelly pulled Clara aside to teach her the choreography for Argenta’s final routine, while Argenta changed for her second number. She didn’t see Clara again until just a few minutes before the final performance. Andrea was backstage with them, since he liked to oversee all new routines, just to be extra certain that nothing could go wrong. Even with the Honeygirl and Honeyboy ensemble gathered, Clara wound her way through them, and stood by Argenta’s side. 

“You got it?” Argenta asked. 

Clara grinned cheekily. “The question is, do you?”

Argenta scoffed, but she found the brief squeeze that Clara gave her hand reassuring. The girl knew what this performance meant to her, after all she’d been through. 

Argenta took her place when the lights were still dark, standing rear and center of the stage. The music started, with the quiet notes of a piano. She began as she had done once before, with the spotlight illuminating the front, and she a shadowy figure making her way slowly toward it. When she finally stepped into the illumination, the audience saw that her dress was not one of black, but gold, studded in reflective sequins and rhinestones. A plunging neckline shaped her bosom, and an asymmetrical hem shaped her legs, one side ending above the knee while the other draped onto the floor. She twinkled in the spotlight, as luminous as the sun, her gown scattering golden pinpoints of light through the theatre. Her long blonde wig was styled straight, cascading past her waist, and almost touching the back of her knees, as long as her real hair.

The first verse started quietly, but already Argenta shone, riding the accumulated excitement of the night’s performances, promising a climax the likes of which had never been seen. She needed nothing but the swelling of emotion within her to captivate the audience, pouring it into the sweeping gesture of her arms, the movements of her lips, the glorified expression on her finely painted features. 

A single Honeyboy joined her on stage, dancing behind her, matching her movements, her ferocity. She remained in place, letting the song sweep through her and fill her with its power, which she radiated outwards. It was a song full of triumph, one of hope and renewal—new beginnings, snatched defiantly from the ruins of a great calamity. She had commandeered it once for her own grief, twisting the song beyond its meaning to suit her purposes, but this was now the performance as it was meant to be—an anthem of victory and purification. 

More and more of her ensemble joined her as the song played through the chorus, the number swelling with each emotional crescendo. Instead of rose petals, Argenta released glitter. They were packed into her gloves, which she tore off, scattering scintillating pinpoints of light into the theatre with the aid of a small Wind materia dangling around her neck as a pendant. It whipped up a breeze that carried her gold into the rafters and the furthest corners of the auditorium to enthusiastic cheers.

A few members of the audience were already on their feet by the time Clara emerged on stage, clad similarly in a short gold dress with a fringe that bounced with every movement. She reached Argenta’s place on stage and together they began to dance in mirrored symmetry, their movements always a reflection of the other, even when the Honeyboys surrounded them and lifted them above their heads. For the final, jubilant chorus, confetti was released from the ceiling, a curtain of gold covering the stage like a sudden shower of spring rain in the sunrise, cleansing Argenta of whatever vestiges of sadness and doubt still lingered in her heart. She cast another Aero, bolstering the weak breath that came from Clara, blowing gleaming pieces of golden paper across the surface of each table in the theatre. 

Argenta and Clara ended with clasped hands and a standing ovation from the audience. Exultation filled her as Clara squeezed her hand again, the grin on the girl’s face as wide as her own. The shouts and whistles were deafening, yet Argenta cared nothing for the adoration of the audience and lost herself instead in the grin on Clara’s face and the naked affection in Clara’s gaze. Heat flooded Argenta, the clamor of the Honeybee’s auditorium fading beneath the fire that Clara had unexpectedly lit within her.

No, Argenta corrected herself, she had been smouldering for Clara for a long time now, and the fact that the girl seemed to return those feelings merely added fuel to the flame that Argenta had already been nursing for months. Clara gazed at her, blinking slowly, her own mouth opening with quiet discovery. Clara’s eyes flickered to Argenta’s lips, her lashes lowered, and Argenta found herself drawn inexorably forward, her own eyes fluttering shut. She let out a soft breath of wonder, surrendered, and then felt the touch of Clara’s lips.

The assembly cheered in a collective swell of sound, but Argenta heard nothing but her own blood pounding in her ears, felt nothing but Clara’s mouth and Clara’s arms coming to encircle her neck. Argenta wrapped her arms around Clara’s waist in response, and still the lights shone and the audience cried.

They parted breathlessly, an unknown amount of time later—seconds, minute, eons—neither of them could be sure. Only then did the lights begin to fade, reminding them both that they would have to get off stage if they wanted to meet again. Argenta came to her senses with the descent of darkness, realizing what she’d just done, expecting astonishment and distaste on Clara’s features, but Clara gazed at her softly and fondly. 

“Kiss me again,” Clara whispered, lifting herself up to her tiptoes and pulling Argenta down so that her warm breath ghosted over the shell of Argenta’s ear. 

Argenta cast a glance toward everyone still assembled in the theatre, and whispered back, “Upstairs.” She wondered why it had taken so long for them to get here.

Clara nodded, and they left the stage. 

Miss Kelly was staring at them with a giant grin backstage, while Andrea shooed all of his dancers back to their dressing rooms. The only look that passed between him and Argenta was a nod of approval. He was smiling the same damn smile that he had on his face after a business deal, after signing on a new investor. Somehow, Andi had known all along that this was the inevitable conclusion of adding Clara Skye to Argenta’s show. 

The trip up the stairs and through the hallways seemed longer than it should have been. Argenta was just wondering if they’d taken a wrong turn when they arrived at their dressing room door. Clara wrenched it open. They stumbled through, Argenta barely having the presence of mind to shut and lock it behind them before Clara caught her attention again. 

Their lips met, not in the wondrous, slow convergence that had just happened on stage, but in the violent, desperate crash of a long-denied passion newly unbound. Clara was not gently receptive as she had been on stage, she was ferocity unleashed, pulling Argenta down insistently, and pressing her body close, the collision of a tidal wave unfolding in compressed time. Even on the tips of Clara’s heels, Argenta had to bend down quite far to reach Clara, so she kicked off her shoes to close their gap in height. 

“Better,” Clara murmured with satisfaction, a mischievous smirk twisting her mouth. She did not sound as if she would ever let Argenta go, now that she had her in her arms. 

Argenta wound her arms around Clara’s waist like a vice, only slightly disappointed that when she grabbed the girl's side she mostly got a handful of foam padding and beaded fringe. Argenta couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed anyone—whether it had been when she'd been fooling around drunkenly with Genesis years ago or an encounter with an anonymous soldier during the war. None of those had meant anything, and had left her emptier than when she’d started, but here there was so much of Clara—nipping the bottom of her lip, leaving lipstick on her cheek, tugging on the back of her neck, and threatening to dislodge her wig though it was firmly pinned in the back. 

Ordinarily fastidious about her drag, Argenta found she didn’t care if Clara rumpled her dress, or if Clara tugged fibers loose from her wig. She only wanted more of Clara on her, wanted Clara to kiss her more forcefully, to press them together even tighter. Argenta had been starved of affection for years, and now that Clara was here, willing to give of herself, Argenta could hardly control herself.

Clara opened for her willingly when she licked the girl’s lip, ignoring the taste of Clara’s lipstick. She was going to have to buy some of the better stuff for her. The girl shuddered in her arms as their kiss deepened, Clara returning Argenta’s passion with equal ardor. They explored their newfound desire together, as shocked as the other by the strength of the lust they harbored, but unafraid to pursue further exploration. Their hands boldly wandered to places they had never touched, caressing skin, squeezing flesh and foam both, as Clara’s fingers dug into Argenta’s breast and Argenta palmed Clara’s ass. They paused, realized that neither could feel the other’s groping, and they laughed, feeling gloriously silly. 

“I’ve never done this in drag,” Argenta confessed.

“Neither have I,” Clara grinned. “Do you want to do this properly?” she asked brazenly.

Somehow, Argenta had always thought of herself as the one who would be taking initiative, but she was not surprised by the way Clara asserted herself, voicing her wants, unafraid of the answer. They stood on the brink of a great change, if Argenta agreed, then this would leave Wall Market, and it would not be just Clara Skye and Argenta Rhodea who had kissed, but Cloud Strife and Sephiroth too. 

“What do you want?” Argenta asked.

“You,” Clara replied. The honesty was simple, bared without fear of consequence, so raw that it made Argenta ache. “Argenta Rhodea.” Clara brushed her lips over the contour of Argenta’s ear. “Sephiroth,” she murmured so quietly the air barely stirred. 

Sephiroth shivered. His heart hammered with trepidation. He had never taken a lover, his experience limited to a few brief encounters he could count on one hand. This might go poorly for the both of them eventually, but that seemed a faraway, inconsequential eventuality. He should ask if Cloud was prepared for whatever storm might come, but Cloud was quickly losing patience, sense losing to desire. Sephiroth answered by reciprocating. They began to strip, hitching up their dresses and pushing down their hose. Hip padding was hauled out and tossed to either side. Tucks were loosened with great sighs of relief. With circulation restored, Sephiroth found himself growing hard rapidly. Cloud sported a similar erection. They had to get rid of their hose completely, peeling off the layers as they staggered to the divan. 

Sephiroth sank down into it, and Cloud piled on top, straddling his waist. Cloud’s makeup was faintly smudged, light imprints of Argenta’s lipstick on his cheeks and jawline. Sephiroth was sure his makeup fared worse, given how easily Clara’s lipstick rubbed off on everything, but he didn’t care. Makeup could be fixed later, and Cloud was stiff and willing, now.

Cloud smirked, clearly amused by the turnabount of looking down at Sephiroth. Cloud fluttered his lashes, and Sephiroth discovered that he found a debauched Clara with smeared lipstick incredibly erotic. Cloud likely felt the same, Argenta’s flawless perfection in ruin, all thanks to the heat of passion. They kissed again, hands finding more flesh, more skin than just the few moments before. 

Cloud moaned softly when Sephiroth’s hand grabbed his ass, nails digging into the sturdy muscle there. His body arched at the touch and he leaned forward, the tip of his cock nosing in Sephiroth’s gown. Cloud winced, the sequins sharp against his sensitive head. Sephiroth solved his problem by wrapping his hand around Cloud’s length, eliciting another moan. Cloud thrust into it hesitantly, his hips seeming to move of their own accord. 

“That feels good,” Cloud murmured, his eyes distant and hazy with pleasure as he blinked slowly.

“Good,” Sephiroth purred. He stiffened even more, with the eroticism of Cloud in his hand. He gripped Cloud firmly, the shaft rigid when he gave it a few experimental strokes. He turned his head upward to capture Cloud’s lips in another kiss.

They found a rhythm, between the movement of Sephiroth’s hand and Cloud thrusting into it, beginning with slow, sedate movements. Cloud’s arms rested on his shoulders, the tips of his fingers alighting on the sides of Sephiroth’s face, his thumbs stroking circles in his jawline with euphoric fondness. Cloud’s lips nipped at his and tempted him with a curl of tongue before retreating quickly, a tease that did nothing but stoke a flare of passion within him. Sephiroth growled deep and low in his throat, and palmed Cloud’s ass that much harder.

The heat pooled between Sephiroth’s legs began to spread, a gradual swelling of desire, as sure and steady as the rising of the tides. They began to grow more desperate, their pace quickening, Cloud’s mouth going slack, his body quivering when Sephiroth ran a thumb up the underside of his head and across his slit. There was slickness there already, precum beading at the tip. 

Cloud gasped, releasing a small “Oh!” of both pleasure and delight. 

“You’ve never done this, have you?” Sephiroth asked, realizing why Cloud was so sensitive. 

Cloud gazed at him through his lashes, pupils dilated with lust, the rings of his blue irises lustrous in the bright lights of their dressing room. “You’re my first,” he confessed, his cheeks reddening slightly with the admission. 

“Then I’ll be gentle,” Sephiroth murmured, his hand sliding up to rest on the small of Cloud’s back. 

“What if I don’t want you to be?” Cloud asked, his soft voice filled with mischief, as he slid one hand down between them and boldly wrapped his fingers around Sephiroth’s arousal.

Sephiroth had an answer for him, but it lodged in his throat as Cloud wrung a groan from him instead, with firm, merciless pumps of his cock. They tried their new position, but after a while it became too awkward for them both, so Sephiroth gathered the length of his wig to one side and shimmied down the divan, pushing the hem of his dress further up his torso. Cloud moved with him, knees still planted on either side, regarding him with his mouth slightly open, the breath leaving him in a shudder as he stared at Sephiroth’s impressive length. 

_This is why tucking is an endeavor,_ Sephiroth wanted to say, and why when secured, he was likely to want to stay so all night, but then an impish grin came over Cloud’s features. 

Cloud bent over and lowered his hips until he laid his own erection along Sephiroth’s, eyes rolling into his head with the pleasure of their cocks aligned. He wrapped his hand around them both. Though his fingers were unable to close the circle around Sephiroth’s added girth, that didn’t stop Cloud from grinding. They trembled together with the new sensation, a flash of heat igniting Sephiroth’s already heightened sensitivity. 

Their bodies rocked in this way, their lengths pressed together, Sephiroth’s hand encircling them both when Cloud’s grip loosened. He squeezed them tightly and stroked, letting Cloud establish their tempo, his eyes hooded with desire as he watched Cloud throw his head back and emit a flagrant, shameless moan. This felt better than anything in Sephiroth’s recent memory, the pleasure more vivid than the usual, functional releases he brought himself to when he showered in the morning. He had never shared his body so brazenly with another man, never let another man stare at him without the adoration becoming a gnawing discomfort in his mind. There was a fervid ardor that gleamed inside of Cloud’s gaze, but instead of disquiet it elicited a like response within Sephiroth—warmth and fondness, an avid desire to put Cloud’s pleasures above his own. He wanted to see Cloud to completion, wanted to watch that body tense and tremble in the throes of climax, before going limp and collapsing on top of him.

He hastened the speed of his hand, not quite sure whether the quiet whimpers released into the room belonged to him or Cloud, or whether their voices mingled, soft exclamations of ecstasy in perfect unison. Cloud braced his arms against the top end of the divan, long surrendered to the bliss of their joining, his jaw slack as he groaned wantonly with every movement of Sephiroth’s hand, his brows furrowed slightly whenever the contact of their cocks intensified. A small crumpling of his expression, and a hunching of his shoulders was all the warning that Sephiroth got before Cloud crested in a violent orgasm that threw his back into a taut, frozen arch and then ripped through every cell in his body, quaking him as powerfully as the shift of the tectonic plates. 

Cloud’s cock pulsed, spilling come onto Sephiroth’s hand and spurting liquid onto his abdomen. The warmth of the fluid between Sephiroth’s fingers and Cloud’s blissful sigh were what put him over the edge as well. He drew a sharp breath, let out a strangled whine, and he too peaked, just as Cloud’s release receded. Sephiroth shuddered, wave after wave of pleasure crashing on the shore of his consciousness as he continued to pump their cocks, as if through the movement of his hand he could persuade the ecstasy to last just one second longer. 

Eventually it ebbed, and they lay together in a contented daze, breathless from their fervent exertions and the wonder that they’d just had sex, on the same night as their first kiss, no less. Sephiroth was the first to recover. There was drying semen on his gown and the back of his wig had come loose. Cloud was lying beside him, and as cute as it was to have the man nestled next to him, Cloud’s weight was starting to shove him off of the divan. If he didn’t move in a few seconds, he would end up on the floor. Sephiroth pitched himself over the edge, and managed to preserve most of his dignity as he staggered to his feet. Cloud blinked up at him, sitting up slowly.

“I always knew Clara was easy lay,” Sephiroth said dryly.

Cloud returned his look with a self-satisfied smirk. “I don’t mind giving senior citizens a hand every so often.” 

“You shady bitch.”

Cloud laughed. “You can call on me anytime, Argenta, you old whore.”

Sephiroth sputtered with indignation. 

“Don’t look into the mirror, by the way,” Cloud added.

Sephiroth hadn’t thought of it yet, but he turned gingerly, and regarded his reflection. Everything above the cheeks had managed to survive intact, but his blush and his contours were ruined, and there was a lot of Clara’s lipstick on his face. 

“I look like I’ve been mauled by a very aggressive dog,” Sephiroth remarked. He would have to redo most of his makeup before he would be able to leave the room. 

Cloud grinned and made little barking sounds. They both cleaned themselves up as best they could, discovering that moist makeup remover towelettes also served to remove certain bodily fluids. 

It was a little later than usual that they finally emerged from the Honeybee Inn and piled into the chocobo carriage waiting for them in the center of the square. There was a small congratulatory card sitting on the bench, and instead of white wine, a bottle of champagne was chilling. 

“Andi!” Argenta muttered.

“Come on, he’s happy for us!” Clara said brightly, sinking onto the bench beside Argenta, now most probably her boyfriend—girlfriend? She picked up the two empty glasses, and gazed at Argenta patiently until she picked up the bottle and poured them both some bubbly for the ride. Clara snuggled close as they clinked in a toast. “Here’s to spending the night at your place,” she said.

“What?”

Clara blinked innocently. “Don’t you want to, you know…” She undulated her hips and made a few suggestive whimpers, “...some more?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Clara grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of missing your bedtime.”

“Aren’t you on duty tomorrow?”

Clara waved a hand. “In the afternoon. So I don’t have to wake up early. That means I can go all night if you want me to,” she said with a sultry smile, pressing her body closer to Argenta’s. “Surely you have the stamina.”

Argenta narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I will show you stamina, you little minx,” she growled. 

Clara preened, satisfied with Argenta’s response. “You better,” she said lightly. She took Argenta’s arm, and threw it about her shoulders, pleased the woman did not protest, but merely drew her closer.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta, [GhostOfTasslehoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff), for her continuous and tireless feedback on the plot and character development, and her time. This fic has improved greatly thanks to her efforts. Please check out her works as well. 
> 
> I would also like to thank my wife, [Naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye), who has been incredibly supportive while I have been writing this, in carving out time and space for me to pursue this creative endeavor. She is an impressive writer in her own right, and if she's ever written anything in a fandom you're familiar with, I wholeheartedly recommend her work.
> 
> Thank you to Tumblr user [mrborsch](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/) for a bunch of amazing fanart!  
> \- [A beautiful illustration of Sephiroth/Argenta and Cloud/Clara](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/post/634803289836421120/the-wintry-mizzenmast-i-love-your-story-so-much)  
> \- [Argenta Rhodea as Shiva (from Chapter 6) and in mourning (from Chapter 17)](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/post/635710571790106624/for-the-wintry-mizzenmast-s-ff7-drag-queen-au-a).  
> \- [Argenta Rhodea and Clara Skye, stunting sequins for new year's](https://mrborsch.tumblr.com/post/637342295566565377/another-two-random-pics-for-the-wintry-mizzenmast)  
> Please give them some love and reblogs! The amazing shading and coloring will knock your socks off.
> 
> Thank you also to the esteemed [Kitsunebaba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsunebaba/), who has drawn an amazing [fanart of Clara in her naughty nightie with the shotgun and extra ammo slung around her shoulders](https://kitsunebaba.tumblr.com/post/641244995420094464/specialist-cloud-strife-of-regiment-x-reporting) from Chapter 27 (Slay the Hell House Down). This perfectly captures what was in my head! Please also give this some appreciation on Tumblr.
> 
> Eagle-eyed readers may notice that I am not completely adhering to the Crisis Core timeline. I am playing fast and loose with events, but it will broadly unfold as it does in the game, until it doesn’t anymore. Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All I Want For Solstice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284762) by [GhostOfTasslehoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfTasslehoff/pseuds/GhostOfTasslehoff)




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